


Sweetness Follows

by Likerealpeopledo



Series: Designated Survivor [2]
Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2019-05-09 20:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14722787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo
Summary: This is a continuation of the Designated Survivor 'verse in which Logan and Rory find their way back to each other and live in domestic bliss.  Mostly.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the Designated Survivor 'verse that was meant as a Fix-It for AYITL.
> 
> It would be helpful for you to read Designated Survivor first and see how the hell we ended up here, because a lot of this fic is Logan dealing with the aftermath of the events that take place in Designated Survivor.
> 
> This fic is written in alternate POV (Logan and Rory) and will be published in chapters. 
> 
> I will post updates as often as I can (as the majority of the fic is written).
> 
> Feedback (in the form of kudos, comments, questions and verbal praise) is both welcomed and requested.

_Life changes in the instant--Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking_

It had only taken one instant for Logan Huntzberger’s life to change completely.  

If he was honest, it had taken one of any number of other things - one lapsed maintenance check on a chartered jet, one phone call in the middle of the night, one missed birth control pill - to really alter his true course, and he would not choose to undo a single one of them.

Maybe it was callous, but he would grieve his parents a thousand times over if it meant he could have just one Lorelai Beatrix Gilmore in his life.

***

As it turned out, all the years that Logan had spent as the fun uncle hadn’t really paid dividends into fatherhood in the ways that he’d expected. Even if he was top of the heap in terms of uncle-ing, his true goal was to be a fantastic father, and maybe the skillset wasn’t exactly the same. The literature about fatherhood was overwhelming, the stakes were high, and his examples were...complicated, at best. Granted, simply by the grace of being present, not to mention both upright and breathing, he had already far exceeded any expectations previously held by most, if not all, of the Gilmore family.  

Luckily for Logan, it was the little victories that he had chosen to relish.

Because without those quick and dirty wins he'd managed to eke out early, he'd already be falling behind.

“This isn’t a competition, you know.”  Rory said, distracted.  Not that he could blame her for having her attention pulled, since she was up to her elbows in lavender and chamomile scented bathwater and biting her lip as she doggedly scrubbed shampoo through Bea’s hair.  In response, their three month old daughter produced what had to be, from a developmental standpoint, a highly advanced, perfectly round set of saliva and soap-born bubbles. The foam cascaded down Bea’s chin and landed lopsidedly on her rounded, glistening belly while Rory cupped her hand against the baby’s forehead in an attempt to prevent the rest of the soap from testing its slogan.  “Nobody ever wins at parenting.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Logan, come on.  Don’t tell me you’re worried about a _grade_.”

Logan raised a skeptical eyebrow as he tossed Rory a clean washcloth. No, that’s exactly what he was worried about, along with a whole host of other unnameable parenting related anxieties. But to dwell on naming any one of them was proving difficult, especially since Bea had just intercepted the cloth and was attempting to pull it toward her lips.  After an initial uncoordinated struggle, she inserted a particularly sodden corner into her mouth. As the light of hard-won accomplishment flashed through her young eyes, a similar swell of paternal pride swept down Logan’s chest. Hand-eye coordination at three months? Bea was a genius.

“This isn’t _Intro to Economics,_ Rory.  It’s our child’s life we’re talking about.  How am I the only one concerned about this? It is far more than likely that she’s going to have an _opinion,_ and with the way technology is headed, there’s a better than average chance that it will be very public and accompanied by some sort of ratings system.”  

He paced across the bathroom, picturing the grown version of Bea squinting at a microchip that rated his paternal performance the way he currently rated his Uber drivers.  It did not succeed in giving him a warm and fuzzy feeling.

Rory wasn’t deterred. Logan could always count on her to be the voice of reason. “She may also be facing widespread famine due to clean food shortages and end up married to a cyborg or even a merperson.  We don’t know the future.”

 _Or not._ “No more Guillermo del Toro movies for you before bedtime, young lady.” Logan chided both Rory and Bea with mock seriousness.  Truly though, if the merperson loved Bea and made her happy, he wasn’t going to get all bent out of shape about their sporting gills or having to serve kelp at Thanksgiving.

“They do make me kind of anxious.” Her brow was furrowed in that academic focused way that she used to reserve for analyzing Kafka and Proust, but this time it was for determining the best method in which to hold a wriggly Bea while still managing to bathe her neck and torso. Water splashed onto the counter as Bea slid down slightly and Rory cursed softly under her breath.

“Kind of?” Logan teased.  

“Shut up. Those Pan’s Labyrinth dreams weren’t _that_ bad.”

“Tell that to my shins, woman.”  Logan edged up behind the mother of his child, dipping his face into the back of her neck.  Rory startled, almost losing her grip on the baby.  “Sorry, Ace,” he said as he backed up and out of her space.  Bathing had to be one of the least safe activities that their newborn engaged in regularly, and he figured he shouldn’t add to the complexity.

Rory harrumphed as Bea splashed a small torrent of bath water onto her mother’s light blue t-shirt, darkening a patch on her stomach.

“I don’t want the merman to turn her against us is all I’m saying, Ace.” Logan lamented into the mirror, and decided to distract himself by digging into the basket of clean baby clothes.  He sorted through options swiftly, in search of a sleeper that closed with a zipper. Rejecting any option closing via the dreaded snap method, he was able to find several zippered pairs that looked like viable options. Before the baby, he’d thought that snaps looked like a ridiculously simple, rudimentary way to dress a small person.  Experience had indicated otherwise. Perhaps it was the lining them up and matching them back together that kept him from a one hundred percent success rate with the closures, but user error or no, it was an extra challenge level he couldn’t possibly stare down at 3:00 a.m.  Lorelai had once referred to snaps as the ‘Devil’s buttons’ and in Logan’s limited experience, she wasn’t wrong.

“Butterflies or bumblebees?”  Logan asked, holding up two sleepers for Rory’s approval.  

Thanks to the diminutive that he’d assigned his daughter at birth, (“Rory B., meet Rory A.  Oh, Bea. Yep, baby girl, that’s gonna stick,”) a plethora of bumblebee related onesies, sleepers, blankets and related accessories had been bestowed upon the baby by all their friends and relatives.  Enough bee memorabilia to make Logan worry that they were just setting their daughter up for a future barrage of Bea Arthur references or melancholic dances in music videos and he’d eventually be the only one that she could rightly blame.  Granted, it didn’t make him worry enough that he’d done anything to modify the behavior or the nickname, but it worried him all the same.  There were just turning out to be far too many ways to screw up.

“What about the cute zebra one?” Rory asked, giving the baby a final once-over.

Logan would not answer in the affirmative until he could locate and examine the romper and its precise method of entry and exit.  Zipper. “Cute zebra pajamas it is!” 

If someone had told Logan a year ago that he’d be pawing through bumblebee onesies with purpose and assisting in the bathtime rituals of a female under the age of 30, he’d have laughed directly (and none too politely) in their face.  But there he was, someone’s dad, and the concept was wide and unwieldy enough that he was just now wrapping his head around it - barely. 

They’d suffered through the yawning stretches of long term inconsolable crying jags and days upon days where it seemed like sleep might never visit them again, but inevitably, a routine had eventually emerged.  To the untrained eye, it even seemed as if they’d developed a fantastic little egalitarian structure.  Actually, it was pretty clearly evidenced through the color-coded and meticulous chart of bottle feedings, wet diapers, and nap lengths (the morning one could be longer, the evening one less so) that Rory kept housed on the front of the refrigerator for quick reference and easy access.  Though God save Logan if he attempted to add his own hash mark instead of reporting it to the proper official (Rory).

And if Rory was the certified schedule keeper, disciplinarian, and nurturer, then Logan’s role was more of a responsibility understudy - when Mommy couldn’t perform her duties, he would sweep in and do what was required - but the majority of his skills laid in entertainment and distraction, which really did hold their own kind of weight in terms of utility.   He was probably most proud of how quickly he was now able to change a diaper -- especially after the less than auspicious start with all those tiny tapes and the fact that it took several incorrect attempts to realize how integral the concepts of “front and back” were to proper diapering success. 

And yes, sometimes he was surprised at how well they managed to keep a tiny human alive and thriving with minimal practical experience.  What didn’t surprise him was how well Rory and he managed as a team.  Sure, there were days when no one in the house had slept for more than fifteen minutes at a time and more than one person left a room in tears, but what mattered was they’d figured out how to do it all together.

After all, they’d both dodged their way through the initial Is She A Baby or Is She A Bomb minefield of the first few weeks, and having a companion, a _partner_ , made it feel like they were actually managing to build something solid. Not just existing.  

They’d existed separately before, and now they had a trio, and it was more exhilarating to Logan than any of the other death-defying stunts he’d pulled in his time. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t start to daydream sometimes at particularly mind-numbingly dull board meetings, and even though he’d been repeatedly warned about savoring the early days, the daydreams were more and more about Bea growing up.

For some reason the scene he seemed to return to most often was this gauzy, faraway idea of a five year old Bea, with twin blond braids and a round, open face, gripping tightly onto the palm of his hand as they crossed a wide, busy street.  There was just something about the sweet tangle of her much smaller fingers into his larger ones that made even his future self absolutely positive that Bea was safe and that it was him, not anyone else, that caused her to feel that way.  Safe, beloved.  Whole.

The tableau could go further, if he wanted it to, and often it did.  In his mind’s eye, he’d walk Bea to school, a little private one that emphasized a love of literature and critical thinking skills and that required parental volunteering on a monthly basis.  (If it was an especially arduous meeting, Logan dream-volunteered as the Field Day Coordinator, designing obstacles and events that celebrated the school year ending.  But it had to be an excruciatingly long meeting to get deep enough to do any real planning. Designing an imaginary zip line obstacle course required a two-day work retreat level of zone-out to accomplish, longer if there was also a bounce house.)  A burly crossing guard with a pushbroom mustache and a warm smile- Logan had named him Stan - was stationed at their quaint street corner, and when father and daughter approached would say, “Howdy, Miss Bea. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” as he held out his hand to pause the oncoming school buses and SUVs.  Safely across the street, Logan and Bea would stop on the stoop of her school to say their goodbyes.  Bea would lift her adorably dimpled chin and gaze up at him, all wonder and adoration and sweetness, hugging his legs as tightly as her five-year-old arms would allow as they parted.  She’d say, “I love you, Daddy, have a good day,” and then inevitably, someone in the boardroom would cough or drop their pen with a clatter, and Logan would be shoved back into reality, all gooey and melted like a chocolate bar left too long out in the sun.

He loved the daydream, looked forward to it, on occasion scheduled extra meetings so he could space out and engage in it. There were other variations, of course. Ones where he carried Bea sleep-warm and boneless up to bed after falling asleep on the sofa watching _The Princess Bride_ together, or where he took her sailing for the first time or taught her how to write her name in a big, loopy letters.  His daydreams were admittedly fairly basic and probably not all that grand to the outside observer, but they still felt so much like dreams. Cloudy and far-off but hopefully, completely attainable. The problem was, he didn’t want to get so wrapped up in what was to come that he missed anything about what was happening now.

And now it was bathtime. Or the end of it anyway.  He was supposed to be getting the baby toweled off and dressed, and Bea’s expressive eyebrows dipped as if she was inspecting the efficacy of each of his methods. From her quizzical stare, she was clearly dubious of most of them.

“You know, I’m doing the best I can here, kid.  You have a lot of books and crannies where water can be trapped.  It’s a design flaw. No offense.”

Bea blinked up at him and waited.

“Okay, okay, I’m all done.” Logan waved his hands in the air briefly to indicate completion.

Bea continued to stare him down like he owed her money.

It was probably more than likely that Bea’s occasional distrust of Logan was passed down on both sides of the family, considering his history (or the history that they’d foisted on him, at any rate). Other than that, Baby Bea was an inexact combination of both Logan and Rory’s genetic material: her fluffy hair was a honeyed brown, naturally growing in an eerie resemblance to the messy haircut Logan had favored in the early 2000s; her eyes were evolving into oceanic blue saucers like her mother’s and grandmother’s.  She’d inherited Rory’s cleft chin, Logan’s nose, and the lung capacity of a distant relative who had apparently been a deep sea diver.  Anyone who encountered Bea and Logan on their daily walk through the Gilmore’s gated community looked down into her passing stroller commented on her beauty, her calm, or her soul-quakingly enormous eyes.  And without fail, Bea stared placidly back at each onlooker, further impressing them with her maturity and grace. 

Okay, so maybe maturity wasn’t something that he had personally bequeathed to his daughter, either, and that was fine.  He could admit it.

Logan liked that Bea was a very solemn baby, and it also explained why she didn’t always seem to appreciate the truly goofier aspects of his personality. Tricks that used to kill with his nephews - raspberries blown on naked Budda bellies, hilariously high and low pitched noises, even high-flying baby airplane games - fell completely flat with Logan and Rory’s daughter.  It was clear that Bea appreciated a more sophisticated wit, like being read satire from the New Yorker or listening in on NPR podcasts. Logan swore that she would straighten up all prim and proper in her bunny swing, little pink lips pursing in expectation, when Rachel Maddow appeared on MSNBC each evening. 

But it was already after Rachel Maddow’s time slot and Rory had quietly slipped away to sneak in a few uninterrupted hours of whatever she wanted (Logan hoped she’d pick sleep, because sleepless Rory had been getting progressively less patient with him), so Logan and Bea were left alone to huddle together in the nursery.  Logan, of course, had hopes of lulling the baby into an unencumbered sleep after her nighttime feeding.  Bea’s plans were less clear.

“Daddy has mixed you the finest of formulas this evening, Mistress Lorelai.  It’s a full bodied soy protein.  Very oaky barrell. I hear the bouquet is a bit sour at times, however, so I apologize, perhaps we let this one go too long in the aging process.”

Bea responded by pushing her tiny palm into the bottom of the bottle near Logan’s hand, as if the thrust or trajectory wasn’t quite proper and she needed to recalibrate.  

“I’ll let the sommelier know that you approve.” Logan said, tipping his chin down to hold the bottle while he readjusted in the glider.  Finally satisfied with the positioning and procurement of her nightly meal, Bea languidly stretched her full twenty-two inches of body length across her father’s lap and curled her toes into the meat of his thigh, her eyes half-lidded as she breathed heavily through her nose and gulped at her late night dinner.  

It was too quiet, with Rory upstairs and just the sound of Bea’s breathing and the occasional creak of the gliding rocker.  Bea’s weight was solid and warm in his lap and waves of affection surged through his chest as they rocked.  She was beautiful and she was theirs and there were so many ways that it could all go wrong.  That he could unintentionally screw it all up or somehow manage to lose it.

It wasn’t like he’d had any practice.  Parenthood was uncharted terrority and he didn’t have a compass or a topographical map or anything more than the sense that he had to do it all the opposite way that Mitchum and Shira had, or at least much much better.

“Can I tell you something?” Logan stroked at the smooth hair near the baby’s ear and by her slow and deliberate presleep blinks, she showed no indication of resistance.

Encouraged by Bea’s agreeable silence, Logan swallowed thickly against the emotion that seemed to be rising in his throat. “You're my favorite anything, ever, and if you ever don't know that, really don't know it in your bones, then I'm not doing this right.  So first, you need to promise me that you’ll say something.  This is me, telling you that you get a free pass for that, so take advantage of it, kiddo.” Logan pushed his toes gently against the floor, inciting the rocker to glide backward.  When the bottle accidentally jostled out of the baby’s grip, he gently repositioned Bea so the movement wouldn’t further disrupt her meal.

Bea took another long blink and emitted what sounded like a frustrated sigh around the nipple of her bottle as she settled back in.  

“They say it’s biology, you know.  That you look like me so I love you more because my caveman brain wouldn’t be able to do it otherwise. Just so you know, I think that’s a bunch of crap.” Moonlight glinted off her still dark eyes as she watched his lips form shapes.  He wasn’t even sure that she could make them out at all, but he knew she heard him, that she felt his heart beating against her, for her.  “I don’t need the extra help, baby, because I love you more than I’ve been able to figure out how to measure, so just know, no matter what, you’ve got me. And I need you to be clear on one thing. Well, probably more than one thing, but one main thing-- it’s my job to keep you safe, even though I can barely,” he paused, deciding to change tactics since it seemed unwise to lay _you and your mom are pretty much all I have and I’m barely holding it together as it is, so um, don’t go getting distant on me_ at the feet of someone who neither walked nor talked. “So, I don’t take a lot of things seriously, but that, keeping you safe, keeping you happy, that I do.  Know, you have to know, that I would do anything for you...I would do absolutely anything.  And I will. Always.”

The house remained still and silent, while baby Lorelei gazed up at him, in what he chose to take for absolute agreement and inherent understanding.

He’d be the first to admit that he’d felt disconnected from Rory’s pregnancy at times (the entire first trimester, for instance) but even once he’d found out about the baby, the fact that they were separated by layers of skin and uterus and amniotic fluid made her somehow less real.  Maybe he was prone to hyperbole, but there at 12:37 a.m., with flesh and bone and a generous swirl of downy hair, she was absolutely the realest thing he had.

Bea was what love was, even if how she arrived was purely accidental.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rory's POV

“Rory, he’s not okay.” In her late thirties and closing fast on forty, Logan’s older sister, Honor, resembled Shira in so many ways, and even more so when she was about to degrade Logan. Rory struggled not to define the look as feral and promptly failed.

 

It had been a nice dinner, one of their bimonthly We Survived the Huntzberger Family (Mostly) affairs, with pot roast and fingerling potatoes and comfort foods that Shira and Mitchum would have snickered about and thought were beneath them. Rory wasn’t sure why Honor was trying to pick a fight. Or if it wasn’t a fight, voice a concern that seemed pretty unfounded. 

 

Rory had always thought that she had a pretty firm grasp on what made Logan tick and what his responses might be to a multitude of different stimuli. Rory knew that Logan’s drink of choice was whiskey thanks to one of Humphrey Bogart’s lines in Casablanca, and it was the same reason he didn’t drink martinis anymore. She knew that he pretended to hate waking up early but instead reveled in those predawn hours when he could answer emails and drink his coffee in relative quiet and he would even set a separate alarm on his phone to do it. Honor probably didn’t know that Logan was surprisingly sentimental, or that he’d ferreted away every ticket stub and playbill from every date, every scribbled out card or letter Rory had ever written him. Post-it notes that she’d stuck on his edited Daily News articles were still stacked in one of his office drawers somewhere, gathering lint where they used to have glue. Honor probably didn’t know how Logan could always recount everything that Rory had worn during important events and his eye for dress sizes and style choices remained impeccable. How Rory trusted him to buy the perfect gift for anyone. Or that he was painstakingly polite to servers and flight attendants and hotel staff and the tips that he bequeathed upon them were as bountiful as his charm. Rory knew Logan, up to and including the cedary smelling pomade that he used every morning because he woke up with his hair going seven hundred directions and none of them correct. She knew from the line of his shoulders that he begrudgingly shared a razor when she’d forgotten to add hers to the grocery list, and that all she had to promise was that she’d stop leaving the cap off the toothpaste in return. 

 

She knew him well enough to know when something wasn’t quite right, and she was pretty sure that this wasn’t one of them. Until now.

 

Plus, Logan wasn’t even around to defend himself, as he was off in Richard’s study with Honor’s husband Josh, perusing whatever selection of cigars hadn’t made it out the front door during her grandmother’s grief-induced whirlwind fire sale. It didn’t seem fair to accuse him of being less than okay without him there to rebuff it somehow.

 

“Honestly, Rory, I think the last time I’ve seen him this out of it was after you two split in college. Not even with my parents--”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Honor.” Rory responded cooly. Maybe there was a part of Rory, the confrontational bit of Lorelai and Emily that still bloomed and lived inside of her, that wanted to march over to Honor and tear her wheat blond hair out by the root for even insinuating that Logan might not be anything but content with their current situation. Instead, she sputtered, “I don’t—he’s not—“

 

Confusion flickered over Honor’s sharp features, until she realized what Rory was hearing, “Oh, Rory, no, no. I don’t mean that he’s miserable or that it’s your fault or...you know, sometimes I blame my parents for never having anything nice to say, but still always saying something at all, because people assume that it’s contagious.” She bit her lip. “No, I’m worried about him, and I know you’ve seen it, or at least you will. If I check on him, he’ll get all defensive and embarrassed and scramble to cover it up, like it’s some kind of defect instead of just being a natural part of all these changes. You know, when JJ was born, Josh got a little postpartum himself, because once all the excitement wears off, you’re just left with a lot of responsibility and very little sleep.” 

 

Rory could hear the men off in the distance, voices carrying over the electronic din of the nephews’ post-dinner entertainment. Logan had been a little quieter, maybe, but he was always so sweet and attentive with Bea, but if she was honest, she knew that Honor had seen what she had the last few months. Those smiles that didn’t meet his eyes or the new and uncharacteristic blankness in his expressions sometimes when he thought she was too distracted to notice. Even for the small stretches that Bea slept, Logan hadn’t been, which was made clear from the detritus of half-drunk cups of chamomile tea that seemed to appear overnight on every flat surface and his new and bizarrely extensive knowledge of every As Seen on TV product known to man. 

 

“He’s fine, Honor. We have a newborn, and he does such a good job with her. Her schedule is good, but it’s not perfect, and Logan is always willing to pull a night shift--”

 

Honor looked to bite back a harsher response, so maybe she wasn’t as like Shira as Rory had originally thought. “I know he’s fine, Rory, he’s Logan. He’s always fine. But just--just keep your eye out, okay? He’s really good at keeping up appearances. It’s kind of in our DNA, so when it starts to slip, people notice.”

 

With that, Honor left to pry her oldest son, JJ, off of the silk curtain in the foyer, because at five, he already could have benefitted from pharmacological management of some of his more impulsive behaviors. Before Rory was able give any of Honor’s warnings a proper processing, her in-laws had already bundled their rambunctious brood into their departing Range Rover, leaving Rory to decide how to manage this new information without intercession or distraction. She watched as Logan collected Bea into his arms for the beginning of her nightly routine, narrating each activity with an amiable chirp.

 

“Fantastic news, Bea, it looks like Berta recovered Mr. Scabnose after his recent AWOL. Guess who’s getting a raise?” His voice always took on a lighter and gentler cadence when speaking to Bea, and it made Rory’s heart a little lighter. He’s fine. 

 

Bea opened and closed her fists in the general direction of the stuffed horse that Logan had just waved in triumph, and he tucked it up under the baby’s chin as he gathered favorite blankets and toys and pacifiers for bed. “I feel like there’s a pair of horsey pajamas with a zip up here to wear in honor of your friend’s return, so come help Daddy find them, all right?” 

 

Bea didn’t disagree as they disappeared with Logan’s heavier footfalls up to the second floor.

 

Rory waited for them in the foyer under the guise of continued clean up, as one of Honor’s boys had managed to overturn more than one potted plant and had tracked a breadcrumb trail of soil in some sort of complicated figure eight through the main hallway. She swept half-heartedly until Logan returned to the living room with Bea and his copy of The Year of Magical Thinking, the memoir that Logan had been working through for what seemed like months. This week he’d been reading some of the shorter, less depressing passages to Bea, extolling the sentence structure and the genius of Didion as Bea tugged on his shirt front absently and nursed her evening bottle against Logan’s muscular chest. “In a few years someone is going to be reading Mommy’s book to their favorite girl and celebrating her economical choice of words, so just you wait,” he’d say as father and daughter beamed at each other over the dog eared paperback.

 

Tonight, the book laid unopened on the coffee table as Logan seemed engrossed in telling Bea his own story, and from afar, Rory monitored the curious and open tilt of his head as he jabbered away at his daughter in fading daylight. Bea burbled her own responses right back at him, her baby arms pumping with uncoordinated excitement and unmitigated glee at having her father's sole attention. 

 

“And then I told that mean old lawyer that I didn’t care if the author had subsidiary rights because it was his intellectual content, after all, and do you know what he told me? Do you know, Bea?” 

 

Bea responded in what both her parents appeared to accept as the affirmative.

 

“Well, I’ll tell you. He told me that everyone must be right about me wanting to burn this company to the ground, because it would never stay standing if I kept things up like this. A writer, owning their own thoughts! How dare I allow such madness!” Logan clapped Bea’s hands together and then rolled them in a patty-cake motion. “I think he called me Junior under his breath too, but I can’t swear to it.” The baby bent her knees, doing a little shake with her hips. “That’s okay, I’ll have him fired,” Logan paused, considering. “Nah, that’s something Grandpa would have done. It was always his way or the highway, wasn’t it?”

 

Rory marveled at how much the two actually did seem to be communicating with one another, to understand each other, considering only one of them was entirely verbal. She considered swooping in, reminding him that Bea was due for bed, but something stopped her, held her back. Pinned to where she stood in the shadows, her heart twinged with the idea that something still wasn’t right, or solved.

 

If only Honor could see Logan and Bea the way that she did, the connection that the two of them had that was just theirs, there would be no way that anyone could believe that Logan didn’t somehow feel whole.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in Star's Hollow

That weekend, Lorelai and Rory had driven to Woodbury in search of a movie featuring “any Ryan or Chris, we’re not picky. But shirtless is preferable,” as Lorelai had put it, leaving Luke and Logan in charge of the infant caretaking duties.  Granted, Rory had also left an extensive and implicit list of baby-related instructions, reminding Luke that “it’s not babysitting if it’s your own child,” at least four times, and generated a list of emergency numbers that rivaled the phone book, when it still existed.  Rory’s preparedness and apparent lack of faith in Logan’s natural problem-solving skills appeared to amuse Luke to no end and gave Logan a little pit of burgeoning frustration somewhere in the vicinity of his digestive system.

After having to reject three suggested activities on the grounds that Rory’s list had expressly forbidden them (taking Bea to the diner was out of the question due to the high heat of the kitchen; Gypsy had been diagnosed with the flu and Rory had forbidden seeing her or anyone who’d been in contact with her for the last 48 hours, which wiped out about a quarter of the Stars Hollow population; and lastly, they were not to go anywhere that Kirk was suspected to work or frequent.  For Kirk-related reasons).

It didn’t help that Luke kept rejecting ideas, too.

“The bookstore for afternoon reading time?”

“That cesspool of airborne diseases?  No way.”

“The pet store.”

“Kirk.  And roundworm. No.”

“The aquarium.”

Luke scowled.  “Where would Star Hollow even _put_ an aquarium? Over the diner?”  A look of distress crowded out the scowl.  “Don’t tell Taylor I even joked about that.”

At a certain point, Logan decided to give up on Activity Roulette and amuse himself by watching Luke make his attempt at settling Bea into her regimented and list-approved nap.  So far, Luke’s process was a little different than Logan and Rory’s bottle, burp, and sway method, and while Bea wasn’t asleep by any stretch of the imagination, she seemed mostly relaxed and Logan didn’t see any real need to intervene or correct him.

Except for the fact that with Luke occupying Bea, Logan was at loose ends and lately, any amount of idle time was time that felt as if Logan was a hair's breadth from spiraling right out of control.  Over the past few weeks, Logan had noticed that he’d been starting to feel as if he was suddenly wound too tightly and today was no different. “How about a walk? It’s a beautiful day.”  Logan suggested, startling Luke out of the staring contest he was holding, and subsequently winning, with Bea.  He wanted to walk so the quiet in living room felt less like having a plastic bag pulled over his head, suffocating him. “It’s on the list after nap, but she never has to know if we do it out of order.”  Logan had a sneaking suspicion that Rory would absolutely know that he had veered from her proffered course, but he had to be able to think on his feet sometimes. He was never going to get better if he didn’t practice.

Luke grunted what appeared to be agreement (or maybe just gas) and Logan dug his light jacket out of the jumble of various baby accoutrement they had carted over for the few hours they’d spend in Stars Hollow, as if they were fording the Connecticut River in a covered wagon instead of driving twenty three miles on the I-84 in a high performance automobile.

A walk would get them out of the house and relieve some of the pressure in his head, with the added bonus that Logan loved Stars Hollow both as a town and as a microcosm.  Being able to explore and find new signage for upcoming festivals and causes Taylor Doose was about to foist on an entire town of unsuspecting citizens was like Christmas to Logan.  Any interaction with the town and its inhabitants was like walking through a live action role play with aliens dressed up to be actual human beings. These people couldn’t actually exist in real life.  Logan wanted to see copies of birth certificates, bank statements, credit histories--anything that would prove that Miss Patty didn’t just land there in a space pod or that Babette wasn’t some kind of replicant wearing the face and clothing of a middle-aged hippie.

Twenty minutes later, the two grown men were still attempting to properly prepare baby Lorelai for her trip outside.  “Where’d you put the diapers?” Luke groused, overturning a box of wipes and accidentally tossing Bea’s favorite blanket onto the floor.  “She’s wet again.”  He said, accusatory, as though Logan was the sole cause of the baby’s active bladder. Okay, in Luke’s defense, that _was_ the second diaper change in less than ten minutes, and the third costume change since Bea managed to show-off her best impression of Linda Blair in the Exorcist and projectile spit up her entire lunch on their first attempt to get out the front door.  

“There’s a really aptly named bag that we brought them in, Luke, I’m gonna guess they’re in there, next to the couch.”  Logan pretended to ignore the under the breath grumping that Luke was producing because he was far busier trying to remember what the hell the trick was to this newfangled stroller. Scratching his head, Logan said more to himself than to his company, “Is it pull, then push, slide and then spin? Or spin, slide, pull, then push? When do I kick it across the room?”

Behind him, the plastic box of wipes clicked shut and the rustling sounds he heard appeared to be ones of progress.  Luke and Bea appeared at his side, both peering suspiciously at him in judgment of his stroller-opening ineptitude.  “You need a Master’s degree to open that SOB, huh?”  Logan didn’t have a Master’s degree, so he supposed so. He snapped his wrist in the third attempt to open and straighten the handlebar.  It remained bent and closed. “Heh.” Luke laughed.

A bead of sweat worked its way from Logan’s hairline into the collar of his shirt and he banged himself in the shin with one of the still bent wheels.  “We may have to call it,” he announced, looking at his watch as if he was about to pronounce the afternoon walk dead on arrival. 

“No, no, no,” Luke pushed him out of the way with a hip as he handed Bea back over.  “Lemme take a look at this thing, college boy.” 

Logan gladly stepped aside, Bea wriggling happily in his now tired arms, her sweater still damp from residual spit up.  They cooed at each other for a few moments, both of them delighted to be reunited and Logan equally grateful that he’d been relieved of any and all mechanical related duties.  He guessed then that he was not destined to be the fix-a-leak-under-your-sink or give-your-car-a-tune-up kind of dad.  That’s what Bea had Luke for, or why Logan had a healthy bank account and could pay someone to do it for them. Logan figured he’d be the call-your-Dad-at-3am-for-a-ride-when-you-drank-too-much-at-the-party-guy and he was absolutely fine with that. He knew his place. Their sweet reunion was interrupted when Bea’s stomach made another gurgling noise and Logan helplessly listened to what was the unmistakable downloading of Bea’s last meal into her diaper.  

“Three diaper changes in twelve minutes, Bea.  Really.” He snorted and set about correcting the situation with practiced efficiency. After he’d painstakingly snapped her back into her dinosaur-themed outfit, Logan gingerly laid Bea into the portable play yard and went to tackle the increasingly obstinate stroller alongside his future father-in-law.

It was at least another fifteen minutes of hard fought manual labor until Logan was finally able to remember that the key to the stroller opening and locking safely in place was push, twist, spin, and then pull. Even as it sat in the living room in all its open and fully functional glory, it was hard to feel victorious.

Logan glanced over at Luke, who was doubled over from his efforts, hands clutching his thighs. “We’re gonna have to start practicing this.  Maybe do timed trials, some drills,” he panted.  When he saw the look of abject horror on Logan’s face, Luke cracked the tiniest of smiles. “I had you going for a minute there, didn’t I?”  

“No.” Logan swiped the back of his hand across his brow, struggling to catch his own breath after swinging a bulky fifty pound mound of metal and fabric over his head for a half an hour. His lungs were on fire. “No. I think we could use it.”  

With the baby finally bundled inside, the two worked together to maneuver the stroller down the front steps and to the sidewalk. Luke navigated what he claimed to be the most advantageous and efficient route, which was probably just the one furthest from places Taylor Doose would likely be, which was fine because even though Taylor fascinated Logan, he was mentally and physically exhausted and wouldn’t have been able to properly enjoy the potential interaction.  Or run interference for Luke while he had one.  They ambled quietly down Main Street, neither man feeling any great need to fill the silence with chatter, although Bea seemed content verbalizing nonsensically to herself within her stroller.  The streets were lined with banners and signs announcing the upcoming Firelight Festival, and he made a mental note to ask Rory if they could visit for it.  Town festivals were prime people watching time, and Logan never tired of gawking at Stars Hollowans, ever.  

They walked for a few minutes, paused for a passing car, and once safely across the street, Logan found himself being magnetically drawn to land in front of a grand white two story house, the front porch lined with doric columns.  The home was close enough to the sidewalk that he felt like he was looking in the front window and but somehow, it still wasn’t quite close enough. Luke, who brought up the rear as he pushed Bea’s stroller, nudged up next to him.  “It sure has good bones, doesn’t it?”

“Sorry?”

“The house, there.” Luke sighed, tone wistful.  “The columns, the brick.  You know, I bought it once, for Lorelai.  It was a huge mistake and I almost lost her over it, but damn, that house has good bones.” Logan decided not to point out how downright mushy Luke was becoming, since lately, he didn’t have much room to talk.  He’d cried actual tears at a chewing gum commercial the week before and when Rory had caught him, he’d had to claim allergies, which then resulted in an unfortunate trip to the allergist for a painful scratch test and several shots.  If there was more or less crying after that, he couldn’t honestly say.

But Luke was right.  The house as a structure was beautiful, but it would have been even more perfect if his daughter and his wife were inside. Logan looked carefully over at the other man, who was still a little lost in thought.  “It feels like a house that needs a family to fill it.” 

Granted, the idea of moving that much closer to Lorelai gave Logan heartburn and trepidation in equal measure but if it might somehow make Rory happier, that was really the only business Logan was ever in these days.  And it wasn’t like he planned on having Taylor Doose over once a week for poker and beers, although he supposed that he _could_ , but it was more that he liked the idea of having the option open.

“That’s what I thought, too.”  Luke harrumphed a little, eyes downcast.  Logan watched with a kind of morbid fascination as Luke appeared to fight back and push down some kind of important internal conflict before he schooled his features and gave the stubble on his chin a thoughtful scratch. “Must be something about the columns.  For being ancient, those columns sure send some kind of message about the future.”

“They do, don’t they?”  Logan stood in place a moment longer, the seed of an idea sowing itself somewhere in the back of his brain.  Emily had generously postponed the sale of the house and allowed Rory and Logan to stay in the Gilmore home while Rory finished her novel, but it was never meant to be a permanent solution.  It was only supposed to be a placeholder until he or Rory made a decision that didn’t somehow get made for them by sheer force of circumstance. But for whatever reason, they were still a little stuck on that front.

They lived with a lot of ghosts already, the ways things were. So it might have been nice to make a fresher start. Live somewhere that was only theirs. Maybe that was why he’d been feeling somewhat out of sorts.  

Which made little or no sense to him, since he and Rory were as strong as they’d ever been, Bea was healthy and perfect, and where he’d planted roots had never seemed to matter much to him before.

Bea started to fuss before Logan could delve too deeply into the ways that he couldn’t possibly stay stationary, and Bea’s legs bicycled in the air as she expressed her imminent displeasure. Luke, at least, seemed to have had the wherewithal to shake off whatever introspection had just befallen him and started back down the sidewalk and away from the giant white house. The movement succeeded in taming Bea’s sudden tantrum, and the out and out wailing was soon reduced to little squeals and even some sweet cooing as Luke made his way back toward home.

By the time the two men had reached the crosswalk, Bea’s eyes were already closed with the start of a peaceful sleep, and Luke turned to Logan, his mouth opening and closing like he was thinking of something important to say but constantly thinking better of it.  “Be patient with her, okay?”

“She’s a baby, she cries.  I’m used to it.”  Logan tried to wring the _duh_ out of his tone, but he wasn’t sure how well he succeeded.  

Luke frowned down at him, irritated. “No, not Bea.  Rory.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Luke scratched at the back of his neck, obviously perturbed that he was tiptoeing down this road, let alone travelling it.  “She’s...you guys…” Logan temporarily worried that Luke was short-circuiting and he’d have to reboot him there on the sidewalk. “You and Rory, I know you love each other, even if you two are idiots about it sometimes.  It’s impossible not to love this one,” he pointed down at the sleeping baby in the stroller, her fists thrown up by her head. “And I keep telling Lor--I mean, it’s not your fault that Christopher was a selfish p-r-i-c-k who didn’t know his a-s-s from his elbow.”

Between the spelling bee and the sentiment, it was hard not to stop in his tracks. “Excuse me?” A spare bottle fell out of the diaper bag and clattered to the pavement, rolling to a stop underneath the basket of the stroller.

“You aren’t responsible for his mistakes and I know that both Lorelai and Rory have this tendency to lump all privileged white dudes into one—-I mean, he definitely made some messes in his time but to not even,” Luke looked around the street a little wildly as if he wasn’t able to control all the words that were suddenly emerging from his face and maybe if there were reinforcements heading his way, they might help out. “Water under the bridge.” He shook his head and swiped a large hand over his face.  Luke was still sweating. Understandably so with all the emotional chitchat.  It was making Logan equally clammy and he really only had the vaguest notion of what the hell Luke was talking about. “I’m glad you two found your way back to each other.”

Logan made the decision at that moment that fatherhood, and by extension, grandfatherhood had the universal tendency to soften even the gruffest of men. “I appreciate the sup—”

Maybe Luke didn’t even require Logan’s presence for the rest of the conversation because he launched onward without acknowledging Logan’s previous response.  “And how much you love Rory, it doesn’t really matter - don’t get me wrong, but all of this is work.  You can’t just build the house and expect them to come. They want to pick out the paint colors and the fabrics and the weird overstuffed couches…”

“Is this still a metaphor, Luke, or am I really buying a house right now?” Logan asked, confused. He’d handled Rory’s pregnancy hormones, and her postpartum ones, he should certainly have been able to handle those of a diner owner in his fifties with a vested interest in the success of his and Rory’s relationship.

“It’s a metaphor, man, keep up.  You gotta let her lead.  You follow.”

“Okay, first it was houses and now it’s dancing.  The lesson’s getting muddled.”

Luke glared at him from under his baseball cap.  “I don’t have to help you at all.”

“I didn’t know I needed help!” Logan threw up his hands in defeat and Bea made a little burbling noise in her sleep.  He lowered his voice as not to wake the slumbering baby.  “Luke, I don’t know what we’re talking about anymore.  Help me out here.”

“What we’re talking about,” Logan could hear Taylor in the distance instructing Kirk on how to properly hang a Chinese lantern. It was clearly making Luke more agitated than he already was, but it gave him the final push he needed to spit out whatever it was that was stuck in his head, “What we’re talking about is that a family isn’t born, it’s made, and for Rory and Bea’s sakes, I don’t want you to have to learn that the hard way.”

Logan didn’t want to have to learn anything the hard way either, but it didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t sure what exactly he was supposed to be learning.

 

* * *

 

“So how’s tricks?”  Lorelai handed Rory a heaping bucket of buttered and salted popcorn, tucking the bills of her change back into her overstuffed purse.

“Writing is hard.  Babies are hard. Rory tired.  No words.”

“Eloquent as ever, my babushka.  That Yale education has really paid off, hasn’t it?”  Lorelai swung an arm around Rory’s shoulders, checked her with a hip as they made their way to the self-serve stations. “You know, my mother is doing that passive-aggressive ‘It’s really a seller’s market,’ right now thing about the house, so if you and Logan had any inkling on when you’d be ready to zip-a-dee-doo-dah your way into a new place of your own, I’d love to be the one to deliver the news.”

Rory sighed.  “We haven’t even talked about it.”  Well, they occasionally complained that the house seemed impossible to baby proof and that they felt too far away from Luke and Lorelai, but no one had really done anything about it.  

“You might want to.  I mean, no rush.  But rush.” The ice machine clattered loudly enough to drown out any protest, so Rory didn’t.  “You guys seem happy.  Not well-rested, but happy.”

Rory found herself practically chumming the water of her mother’s wide open sea when her tone betrayed even the slightest whiff of hesitation.  “Of course.”

 _Damnit._ An eyebrow rose. “Hmm?”

“What?  No. Yes. We are.  Both of those things. He’s so good with Bea.  So so good.  A lifesaver.”

“But?” Lorelai had Rory cornered by the concession’s Coke Freestyle machine, a straw bitten between her teeth as she wrestled to get the plastic lid onto the full cup.

_But there’s something he’s not telling me and if I tell you, you’ll say I told you so, so I can’t say anything at all._

Ugh, she hated giving her mother any inkling that Logan possessed any weakness, even if it was completely and wholly understandable, given his history.  His parents were truly nightmare people both as individuals and in tandem and he’d flourished in spite of them, not because of them.  Raising a child was definitely going to activate some insecurities, even in the healthiest of relationships. “His sister thinks he’s depressed.  Or something.  She never used the word, but she thinks something is off.  And I’ve been skulking around looking for signs, and he’s just...he’s not depressed.”

Lorelai chucked the straw paper into the garbage can and collected an impressively unnecessary pile of napkins from the concession as they walked toward their assigned theater.  “I’m about to suggest something that is completely revolutionary and maybe it’s because I just watched this whole infomercial about people who used it and just raved about it...it’s called a conversation. I know, I know, it sounds b-a-n-a-n-a-s but it seems nutty enough that it just might work.”  Rory threw her mother a dirty look. “If Honor knows him pretty well, instead of Nancy Drew-ing it, why don’t you just say something, hon?”

“I don’t want to spook him.” It wasn’t that she thought that Logan’s place in her life was tenuous, but maybe his patience for intrusion was.  

“Ah, the unbridled mystique of Logan Huntzberger strikes again.” Lorelai mused.  “Rory, he loves you.  He’s been honest with you.  To a fault.  Say something.”

“It’s not like he’s shooting up in the bathroom.  He’s quiet.  He might just be...quiet.”

“Then if there’s nothing to say, there’s nothing to say.  Logan doesn’t strike me as someone who minds a conversation.  Maybe you’re just so used to these extremes in relationships that maybe you’re the one having trouble with steady.  Take it from someone who once hiked for up to five feet to clear their own head.  Sometimes it’s you, not them.”

A fresh wave of horror ran through Rory’s bloodstream.  What if _she_ was the problem?  Logan wouldn’t admit it, not if it meant disruption, because she knew in her heart that of hearts that Logan wouldn’t do anything if it meant endangering Bea’s stability in any way.  But it also meant that he’d overcompensate for whatever he thought wasn’t there, and that would lead to a newer and fresher disaster. 

It took most of the movie for Rory to come to the conclusion that it wasn’t the asking that frightened her, but more the answer, and she still wasn’t certain that she was willing to risk it. Some days it felt like they were clinging onto this narrow thread that was holding the whole thing together, and she certainly didn’t want to be the one to pull and unravel it.

* * *

Back at the house, Luke extracted two beers from the refrigerator and popping off the caps with a practiced hand, he offered one to Logan.  “You deserve it, man.”

Logan took a deep pull and almost spit the frothy liquid back out onto the floor.  It wasn’t skunky at all; it just tasted like something he wasn’t quite prepared to taste. Like when you pick up your coffee and but you get orange juice instead. “What is this?  Mango?”

Luke shook his head.  Thank God, Logan thought.  “Nope, guava.”

“What the…” Logan looked down at the brightly colored label and !Guava Libre! stared up at him. His brain was having difficulty processing the visual input. “Huh.  Guava.”  Logan took another experimental sip and swished it around his tongue and into his cheeks. It wasn’t terrible, it was just _surprising_. The beer itself was creamy, with a crisp tropical taste and a hint of...“Is that vanilla?”

Luke rolled his eyes and looked a little pained as he nodded. “Listen, it’s possible that Lorelai bought it as a joke or a science experiment or maybe she wasn’t wearing her cheaters down at Doose’s.  All I know is that I drank it accidentally and I don’t know if they’ve drugged it or if it caused some sort of taste bud-related dementia, but I just keep going back for more.”  Luke eyed Logan over his bottle of fancy beer like one or both of them had just committed a crime and they were still standing over the bodies holding the murder weapons. Logan didn’t have the nerve to mention that Luke was the one who handed him the stuff so he wasn’t sure why he was the one on trial.  “And if you tell anyone about this, I will have Cesar disembowel you with a rusty spoon.”

There were few things that he believed more fully than Luke’s threat. He gulped loudly. “Understood.”  

Luke wordlessly clinked the neck of his bottle against Logan’s in a pact of solidarity and hopefully easily avoidable future homicide.  Finding his legs, Logan took another swig before he went to settle Bea in her portable play yard for the rest of her nap and Luke stayed behind in the kitchen to pour bags of chips and pretzels into a bowl for a pre-dinner snack. Setting the snacks down on the coffee table, Luke settled onto the larger sofa and turned the sound up on a football game that Logan only half-paid attention to while he finished the first new weird beer and started on a second.  

Before he made the mistake of asking Luke what exactly about his demeanor or mood seemed to cry _Dr. Phil me!_ , Rory and her mother came whipping through the front door on what was clearly the crest of their traditional movie-going sugar high.  Lorelai entered the house in a flurry of high fructose corn syrup and pizza orders, and before the call was complete, Luke was already grumbling under his breath about someone developing scurvy when he realized no vegetables were being mentioned.  Logan sprang up from his seat as if Rory had just caught him lustfully canoodling with a bottle of too fruity beer (which she kind of had) and his legs went out from underneath him as Rory tackled him against the sofa in a half-hug, half-nelson of a greeting.

Still clutching a mammoth bag of popcorn from the theater, Rory shook it under Logan’s nose while she tucked herself under his arm and burrowed into his chest. She smelled like butter and sugar and that rose hips shampoo that she always used, and he wanted to do more than plant a chaste kiss near the side of her lips.  It wasn’t enough.

“How was the movie, Ace?” Logan kissed her nose, then dipped his head to nip lightly just below the divot on her chin.  He’d take whatever G-rated fun he could get at this point.

“Fantastic.  We’re changing your daughter’s name to Gosling in his honor.”  Lorelai interjected from near the portable bassinet, popping a pretzel into her mouth and tipping down to check in on her granddaughter with a crunch loud enough to potentially wake her.

“Great.  I’ll call the lawyers.”  Logan turned back to Rory.  “Hi.”

“Heya handsome.” She leaned closer, licking her lips and staring down at his with a look that shot an electrical current straight down his spine.  “I missed you.”

“Apparently I missed Gosling.”  He kissed her again, soft and maybe a little too lingering for parental unit proximity.  

Rory pulled away slowly, equal parts starry-eyed and puzzled.  “Is that...do you taste like mangos?”

“It’s guav--” Logan started to say, but over Rory’s head, Luke was making a particularly menacing slashing gesture at his own throat, eyes wide with warning.  “It’s a new chapstick I’m trying.”

“Okay, Ryan Seacrest, you may want to lay off the tropical Lip Smackers for a little bit, they’re strong.” Rory leaned in to press her lips to his and pulled away as she licked at the flavor she’d pulled from his mouth. “No, on second thought…” She went back in for a third and Logan swiftly pulled the nearest throw pillow - the embroidered faces of the Golden Girls staring up at him, beseeching him - onto his lap.

“Rory,” he muttered into her mouth with a groan. “We gotta stop. I’m gonna embarrass myself.  More than usual.”

Rory pretended to pout, but it felt comfortable and familiar, and like something he only had the barest chance of screwing up.  He and Rory would be fine because of (or maybe in spite of, he still wasn’t quite sure) the way that they felt about each other, and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to keep it that way.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Rory and Logan were both quiet as Bea dozed in the backseat and no one in the car was willing to risk waking her, even if it meant forty-five minutes of comfortable silence and the chance that she’d be awake and ready to face the day at a far too early 3 a.m.  Instead of idle chat and about seventeen different conversations Rory had intended to start, she’d settled for sliding her hand over to Logan’s as it rested on the gearshift, and threading her fingers through his for the rest of the drive.

At home, Logan unloaded the car as Rory tiptoed a still snoozing Bea into her crib and reunited with Logan in the kitchen as she brewed a pot of coffee to keep her nightly writing schedule alert and on track.  

Rory would fully admit to still floating in her own little bubble when Logan slung a warm arm around her neck, pulling her close.  Even if Bea hadn’t been a human faultline that they’d been intent on not disturbing, she somehow doubted that Logan would have been completely participatory in any conversation topic she’d offered.  Throughout dinner with her mom and Luke, he’d been uncharacteristically somber and pensive, and even when he’d glimpsed his own Stars Hollow bromance partner Taylor Doose out on his nightly walk, Logan had barely even waved.  Rory tugged at Logan’s chin, rubbing a circle into his newly growing whiskers with her thumb, and pulled his gaze down to meet hers.  The brown eyes that met hers were tired, maybe even a little sad. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

Rory moved her thumb so that it trained up Logan’s sharp jawline, and he nestled his cheek into her palm.  The movement itself gave her an odd sense of relief, of protection. 

“So what did you and Luke get up to today? Did you two accomplish a lot of manly feats?”

Logan shot her puzzled look.  “You mean after the log roll and the thing where you pull a semi-cab with your teeth? We participated in some light pugilism, yes.”  His lips curved up in a smile and something wistful passed through his expression.  “We went on a walk around town and Luke may have given me his version of the Ghost of Christmas Future or the Boulevard of Broken Dreams speech, I’m not quite sure.  I don’t think he was sure either. It felt...unplanned.”

“I’m sure it was very…”

“Awkward, yes.  Very.  But I survived and live to tell the tale.  Or at least hit the highlights, which definitely included the part where he spelled out the word prick and then told me that I have to let you lead.”

“It wasn’t the sex talk was it?  Oh my God, Luke gave you a sex talk.” She covered her face with her hands.

“First of all, the fact that I’m not in a catatonic state right now should indicate that your stepfather and I did not discuss any matters of a sexual nature this afternoon, and second, just no.  God, no.”  He seemed to shiver involuntarily. “Rory. God. The mouth on you.”

“Well, there were body parts spelled and I don’t know, it just seemed--” See, he was fine.  He was laughing and joking and only slightly traumatized by the mental images she’d just accidentally inflicted upon him.  So it would be fine if she just asked him straight up. “If you - you can tell me if you need something, you know that, right?”  Well, kind of straight up.  All these years and she still wasn’t great at direct confrontation.

Logan’s eyebrow quirked as his smile slowly faded. “Hmm.”

Rory could sense the exact moment that Logan’s defenses began to rear up, his spine tensing beneath her fingers.  She was going to have act quickly if she didn’t want him galloping off into the night.  She stood on her tiptoes to kiss away a crease that had landed between his eyebrows. “You okay?”

“Rory.” Logan extracted himself from her hold and set about prepping that evening’s bottles, opening and closing cabinet doors with forced efficiency.

“There’s nothing bothering you, right?”

He stood at the stove, the saucepan poised over the gas range.  “You poking around for something specific there, Ace, cause we haven’t played a game of Twenty Questions this prolific in a while.  And just in case, no, it isn’t bigger than a breadbox.”

“You’re annoyed with me.”  Rory crossed to meet him where he was, boxing him against the countertop with her hip.  “Don’t be annoyed with me.” 

Logan ducked a little as she reached up to smooth at his cheek, “I’m not annoyed with you, I promise.”  He reached for an empty bottle, examining the heaping measuring scoop with excess rigor.  “It’s been a long day and I still have to look over those presentation details for tomorrow and you have a deadline. Plus, these bottles aren’t going to make themselves, I forgot to pay the formula fairies this month.”

“No, I know--” Rory could feel the heat rising to her cheeks and she couldn’t decide if it was embarrassment or anger or some kind of hybrid of both. “Logan. Just.”  She gently placed her own hand over his where it rested on the counter next to the cylinder of formula that he was digging into with a slightly too fervent bent.  “Just stop, for one second.  Look at me.  Be with me.” 

He sighed, but there was a marked difference in the rigidity of his shoulders as he stepped toward her.  Whatever it was, it was going to be okay, and he was going to be okay because Logan was always okay, just like Honor had said.  “It’s late, Ace.”  His voice was soft, calm, and his gaze finally lifted to meet hers.

“I know.”  She gently extricated the scoop from his hand, pushed the bottle he was filling toward the back of the counter.  “I’ll get these.  You go finish up your work and turn in, okay?  I’ll get the first wake up, I promise.”

To her surprise, he didn’t argue.  Didn’t renegotiate.  Just leaned down to kiss her, his lush golden eyelashes brushing her cheek.  “I’m gonna head up.  Don’t stay up too late.” 

She hugged him then, something quick and fierce, and she didn’t miss the initial way that he’d drawn back a little, as he’d been startled. “I love you, Logan.”

Another parting kiss landed on the furrow between her eyes. “I love you too.”  That smile met his eyes, soft and warm and true. “I’m sorry if I’m a little,” he mimed the _Psycho_ knife stabbing motion complete with sound effects, “I don’t mean to be.”

“You’re tired.” Rory repeated, more for her own comfort than his.

Logan sighed. “Mmm-hmm.” He rolled his head over his shoulders as if he was shaking off a fog and before her eyes, Rory watched as Logan reinstated the mask of what always seemed to pass as casual detachment. “What was on your mind though, Rory?  Is it a now thing or a later thing?”

“Later.  Don’t worry about it.”  She paused, searching for a cover.  “I’ve just been thinking that maybe we should probably start thinking about a move, y’know? Not that the Gilmore Palace hasn’t been kind to us, but—“

Logan stopped at the bottom step, turned back to look Rory in the eye.  “That’s starting to be a real theme with people today.  But I wouldn’t mind a shot at our own place, Ace.”

Her mood buoyed a little then.  Maybe it was exhaustion, mixed with work stress, smothered in temporary living situation ennui that was making Logan seem not like himself.  Maybe it was a simple fix after all.  “I’ll call the realtor in the morning and get something set up,” she said to his retreating back as she hurried through the rest of the nightly bottle prep to join her sleeping family upstairs.

* * *

 

 

The digital alarm clock read 1:13 a.m. and Logan was still awake, having gotten up at least five times in the short time he’d been attempting to sleep.  It had been the same way the night before and the night before that, and if he stopped to analyze the pattern, it had probably been happening consistently that way for at least two weeks but maybe even longer.  It was starting to getting muddled and hazy in a way that felt completely foreign. 

Vigilance, was what it was. Or what he had convinced himself it was, anyway. That little niggling feeling in the back of his head that crept under his skin and convinced him that he couldn’t stay where he was, relying blithely on the rudimentary mechanics of the baby monitor.  He needed to _get up get up get up go check_ .  Logan’d found out the few times that he had tried to ignore the creeping voice that he wasn’t able to even _pretend_ to sleep unless he had seen with his own eyes that Bea was okay, that she was still breathing, that she was safe.  

In a weird way, there was comfort in the routine of it. The weight of the duvet as he flung off his side, the soft _whumpf_ as it landed on the obliviously slumbering Rory.

The pile of the nylon carpet plush beneath his bare feet as he tiptoed out of bed and down the short hallway to the nursery.  

The familiar powdery scent that wafted toward him as he pushed through the already ajar door and the familiar shadow of the unicorn night light as it danced against the freshly painted walls.  

Once he’d reassured himself that Bea was breathing, that her skin was warm but not too warm and the rise and fall of her chest was consistent and deep and _enough_ , he would typically cross back to the open door and find his way down the darkened hallway and slide undetected back into bed.  On this trip, however, something had kept him from slipping back out, some unnamed force that urged him to slide down to sit at the foot of his daughter’s crib, the oaken slats digging into his shoulder blades and his heart rapping a drumbeat against his ribcage.  

 _Ten minutes.  Ten minutes I’ll sit here and make sure she’s okay.  Ten minutes and I’m back in bed, curled around Rory.  Ten minutes._  Twenty minutes passed and still he sat.   _She’s fine.  She’s doing that little snore and she’s breathing and she’s fine.  Unless that snore is because her airway is obstructed…_ And he’d be up again, adjusting her sleep sack so it was nowhere near her face and smoothing his hand over her downy hair and convincing himself everything was fine.

Because everything was fine.

Everything but him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the beginning of some stuff for Logan that we probably haven't seen him deal with on the show because his life has been pretty charmed. But now he's the focus of this story and even though Shira and Mitchum aren't around to boss him, they still loom large. 
> 
> Updates coming!


	5. A Thousand Ships

It was next to impossible to get any work done.

Rory hadn’t been back in front of her laptop for more than thirty seconds when the doorbell and the landline (which she had repeatedly insisted was completely unnecessary but no one could seem to figure out how to convince the phone company of that fact and cancel the stupid thing) started to ring simultaneously.  

It had already been a weird morning.  The internet was acting irrationally spotty while Rory had been trying to email revisions to her editor and as the hours ticked by, Bea steadfastly refused to succumb to her extremely routine and beyond needed morning nap.  Rory hadn’t been able to put the baby down for more than seconds at a time without receiving an irritated response that ranged from soft whimpering mewl to Category Five tornadic siren, and the ringing phone only exacerbated the cacophonous experience.  And to begin the morning’s weirdness and really kind of set the tone, Logan had disappeared from their bed at some point in the night and Rory had finally located him curled half-underneath Bea’s crib, a tiny pink blanket pulled tight across his broad shoulders, knees crammed into his own rib cage for warmth. When she’d tried to address with him what she’d just encountered, he’d jovially kissed her nose, pushed a fresh cup of coffee into her hand and before she knew what was happening, was off to work in a puff of sandalwood cologne and a promise to be home before dinner.  Like nothing had ever happened.

Tripping over one of Bea’s discarded toys, Rory made her way to the foyer to discover the identity and nature of her most recent unannounced, and frankly, unwelcome visitor.  It didn’t appear to be anyone with a pamphlet wanting to discuss her chances at a happy afterlife or a man with a box of knives for sale. Plus, as she peered out the side window, she could see the US Postal Service van parked on an incline in the driveway, so it probably wasn’t a serial killer. When she opened the door, it wasn’t their usual postman, Sully, but instead an unfamiliar disgruntled-looking postal employee in a navy jacket with a USPS patch on the shoulder and dark slacks.  Rory quickly signed for the registered letter and as the postman left without comment, she listened as another nameless lawyer left yet another important sounding message she knew Logan had no intention of listening to, let alone returning. The estate lawyers were certainly a dogged bunch, and Logan’s ability to evade them was probably beginning to be the stuff of legend around the estate lawyer water cooler. People just didn’t dodge their own inheritance.  But Logan Huntzberger clearly wasn’t people.

“They’re still calling.” Rory announced unhelpfully to Lane on the phone a few minutes later.  She’d originally intended to call Lane to firm up some lunch plans for while Logan was out of the country, but when she’d texted Logan about the calls and the letters, and he’d only texted back, “K,”  Rory decided the call to Lane would also double as a bitch fest. It wasn’t something she loved doing, talking about Logan behind his back to her friends, but his response was such another clear avoidance tactic that she was going to have to temporarily abandon some simple personal principles. Which she didn’t exactly love, but unfortunately, the good people at Apple hadn’t yet invented a _throttling your loved one_ (or, for everyone’s benefit, a _cramming your shattered iPhone down the throat of your beloved because he refuses to communicate like a human)_ emoji to convey the precise nature of her displeasure and airing her dirty laundry to her oldest friend seemed the next best thing.

“I don’t know who _they_ are, Rory.”  It was just after lunch and Rory could hear the twins playing a particularly loud video game in the background.  Or maybe it was Zach home on a day off of work. It was hard to tell some days. “Who even calls people nowadays? Telemarketers?”

“No, not them.  The lawyers.”

“He still hasn’t met with them?”  It had been over a year. The anniversary of the plane crash had come and gone and if Logan had acknowledged it, Rory couldn’t tell.  She could definitely tell that he was avoiding other obligations, though, if the stack of unsigned legal documents in Logan’s desk drawer was any indication.  Rory didn’t think it was a good idea to talk to her mother about any of it, because she didn’t feel like admitting another way in which she and Logan didn’t seem to be communicating, and Lane was maybe the least judgemental person Rory knew.  Years of Mrs. Kim’s obsessive white-knuckled control combined with the eternal hell fires of damnation school of Korean mothering had really given Lane the ability to be aggressively reasonable when it came to everyone else’s issues.

“No.  It’s like if he closes his eyes, he thinks they’ll go away.  This last message sounds like they need a decision about the house, pronto.”

 

“You mean the castle on the hill?  It’s just sitting empty?”

 

Rory shrugged and fiddled with the phone cord. Her grandmother still had phones that came with cords and Rory had half a mind to sell one on Ebay as an antique. “Honor still has a staff there, keeping up appearances.  But she isn’t any less tight-lipped about all things Huntzberger, and it’s almost like if they both pretend nothing happened, it will all just go away. Mutual ignoring, I guess, but I sure don’t understand it. They need closure.  Plus, who doesn’t want a zillion dollars deposited in their bank account?”

 

“People who already have a zillion dollars in their bank accounts, usually. You know, if Logan doesn’t want it, Zach and I are completely open to donations.  A double college fund is tax deductible, remind him.”

Rory laughed.  “I’m sure he’d be happy to donate.”

Lane was silent for a long moment and Rory could picture her carefully parsing out her next few words.  “But it has to be hard for him, ya know? His parents were--”

“No, I know.” The reality was, Logan had lived under the long shadow of Huntzberger obligation for more than thirty-five years and sometimes he threw off those shackles, and sometimes they absolutely dragged him down. Even after everything was said and done, Rory really don’t know how Logan ultimately _felt_ about Mitchum and Shira, other than they frustrated him, and most of the time it seemed like they wanted him to be someone other than himself.  When himself was pretty freaking awesome. She loved him for all the things that they were always trying to change, and it had to have been way more confusing for Logan than it ever was for Rory. “That’s the thing, though. It doesn't have to _be_ complicated.  He wouldn't even have to keep the money, even if he got it. He could pour it back into the company or put it in a trust for Bea. Hell, he could give his half away or start some sort of foundation, that would really stick it to their memory.”

"Nothing says revenge like cramming charitable giving into the faces of the deceased,” Lane sighed, and either Steve or Kwan cheered incongruously in the background, “I might never understand rich people, Rory.”

“Me neither.” She grumbled, and added _avoidance_ to Logan’s growing list of of uncharacteristic behaviors. “But clearly what he resists persists. And keeps persisting.  Like a venereal disease meets a Jehovah’s Witness meets Paris Geller when she’s read an op-ed about the repeal of the Affordable Care Act.”  

“Wow, that is seriously aggressive. But let’s not forget that they are lawyers, and lawyers pretty much eat money for breakfast.  I’m surprised they aren’t jumping out of planes and parachuting onto the roof of your house right now with contracts and fountain pens.”

At that, the landline began to ring again and Bea, who hadn’t been napping, but had at least been quiet, started to fuss again at the commotion.  Rory groaned. “I hear the pitter-patter of lawyer feet, I gotta go.”

It wasn’t a lawyer, but instead one of the administrative assistants that worked for Logan, reminding Rory about Logan’s upcoming international flight and the fact that he had no clue where his passport was, could she please look into it for him as he had a late meeting.  But before she could trudge upstairs to start tearing apart the closet to search out the suit jacket pocket he’d inevitably left it in, Bea was boisterously making her hunger known.

At just after six, Logan clattered through the front door, his work satchel bouncing off the top of his knee.  His hair was windblown and if Rory looked too closely, his eyes were a little bloodshot, but the line of his shoulders and the sight of his boyish face still made her stomach do a little flip flop every time he walked through the door.  She’d watch him walk through a thousand doors, for a living, if it meant she always had that low static thrum under her skin whenever he crossed a threshold. He unloaded his briefcase, threw his jacket over the banister and made his way into the living room where he leaned down over the back of the couch to nip her on the top of the head with a kiss.  “How’re my girls?” Logan asked as he collapsed into a heap next to Rory on the sofa. He smelled like coffee and burning leaves and the mint gum he always chewed to cover up the stale coffee, and as he landed, he knocked her laptop sideways. “Oopsie daisy.”

Rory gave him a sideways glare as she righted her computer.  “We’ve been better.”

Logan leaned into her space further, tipping his forehead against hers.  He knew she was powerless to that maneuver and they were close enough then that she could taste the caffeine on his breath. “Can I help?” He pressed his lips to hers, and she could feel the tension seeping out of her shoulders as her lips softened underneath his.  Damnit, he was gonna kiss _the call the lawyers_ lecture right out of her.  That wily son of a gun.

“Bea’s in a terrible mood.”  Rory mumbled into Logan’s mouth.

He pulled a few centimeters back, but not enough that his features were discernible in her line of sight. “I’ll get her,” Logan said, still way up in Rory’s space, and showing no signs of retreat.  Not that she wanted him to, because even as exhausted and frustrated as she was, she still wanted him close. Close and happy and attentive. “You rest. Or work. Or restfully work. Some combination of the two.  I’ll take Bea duty.” Rory stomach growled. “And I’ll order Chinese. Because I’m just that good.” He lingered over her lips for a few minutes longer, his weight mostly balanced on his forearms as he attempted to wrest himself away from what was turning into a leisurely makeout session on the sofa.

Rory held him in place with a hand placed strategically along the back of his neck, and basked in the affectionate glow for a few minutes longer.  It was times like these, when it was so clear that she was absolutely head over heels in love with Logan, that she’d get a little pang that reminded her that she almost never got him back.  That she’d sent him away, again, and it was just misfortune that had re-inserted him in her life. Well, she’d like to think that eventually she would have come to her senses, that she would have had the guts to call and tell him about the baby, but the way things had been going for her last year, it didn’t seem near likely enough.  Sometimes the regret could land on her like a helicopter and apparently, this was one of those times. Rory found herself pulling away, extracting herself to try to shake off the idea that Logan almost married someone else, a person that he did not expressly love, because Rory had essentially abandoned the idea that they could ever be... _this_.  Exactly what they were.  “Hi.”

“Well, hello.”  Logan’s lips were pink and kiss-bitten and just the slightest bit swollen, and she stroked her thumb over his bottom lip with a gentle glide.  “A penny for your thoughts, Ace?”

She didn’t think it was wise to hand them over for all the money in his wallet (or his bank account) but sometimes it was enough for her to acknowledge that that’s what it was; a pang of regret for lost time and now they were exactly where they were meant to be.  He was the father of her child and they were engaged and everyone’s life had gone sideways, not just hers. Yeah, it was an utterly selfish thought to have, but she’d spent so long feeling doomed to a life of _almost_ and _not quite_ that just having things somewhat settled felt like a victory in itself.  Logan was hers. She was his, and there was no one in the middle.

“Just glad you’re mine, is all.”  

Logan smiled, positioning himself so that his arm ran across her shoulders, and gently yet forcefully slotted her into his side. “You might want to tell that to your thousand-yard stare, Ace.”  

She dropped her head onto his shoulder and wondered if it would possible for them to just stay in that spot, on that couch, forever.  It felt completely plausible. The baby might learn to walk eventually and she could join them. “I love you.”

Logan rubbed reassuringly at her shoulder then ducked in to peck at the side of her neck, then her earlobe.  “I love you, too, Ace. Did my doctor call or something? Is it a tumor?”

“You always make a joke like that when I tell you how I feel about you.”  Rory complained.

“You always tell me how you feel about me when another shoe is about drop, is all.”

“That’s patently untrue.”

“It’s at least partially true, or else I wouldn’t make those jokes.  There is truth in comedy, Rory.”

“Okay Shecky Greene, while we’re being so truthful, I need to talk to you about these incessant lawyering calls.”

Logan shuddered, maybe a little involuntarily.  “Ugh, Rory, I’m sorry. I thought I’d put more of the fear of Huntzberger into them about bothering my wife and child at home. Persistent little buggers, aren’t they?”

Rory nodded and snuggled deeper into Logan’s chest.  She forgot how nice it sounded to be called his wife even though they weren’t yet official.  Logan’s heart was beating at a rapid clip and she put her hand flat on his chest as if that might help to calm it.  “It’s hard for you, I know, but it’s not...it won’t go away.”

Logan took a deep inhale like he was about to launch into a plethora of reasons why it wasn’t all that difficult and it was really just a circumstantial occurrence that he’d missed eleven hundred and seven calls about his parents’ estate and its division when Bea began to bleat out cries of dissatisfaction across the baby monitor.  “I’ll get her. Hold that thought.”

She didn’t though, because she could hear Logan murmuring to Bea about giving Mommy a break and did she want to go for a walk to look at the late fall foliage and before Rory could even remember what it was that she was wanting to address, Logan was covering her with a throw blanket as she dozed on the sofa.  Bea was strapped to his chest in her baby carrier, and Logan and their daughter both gazed down at her from above with matching semi-concerned expressions. “Sleep,” Logan said, as he smoothed his palm over Bea’s flyaway hair, her lips set in a studious bow. “We’ll be back bearing Chinese.”  

Logan was true to his word.  The house was quiet and still for a time, but once the moo shu pork and sweet and sour chicken had been demolished, the dishes washed and put away, Bea was back to her previous fussing.  

Truly, no one in the house seemed particularly settled into their nightly routine.

“I’ll play you for it.” Logan bounced his closed fist against his flat, open palm.  They’d both taken several turns feeding, rocking and changing the baby, even tag-teaming a warm bubble bath, and nothing seemed to prevail over her discomfort.  “One, two, three,” Logan clapped his closed fist against his palm, “shoot!” and threw ‘paper’, clearly hoping that Rory would stick with her usual pattern of literally alternating rock, paper, and scissors as she did whenever they played.  He looked up at her in mock disgust when she’d held out her two fingers in a vee, “Oh, come on! Best two out of three?”

Rory shook her head.  “It’s your turn, Logan.  Don’t shirk.”

“Shirk? I am not shirking.  I just think that I might actually be making her angrier right now.  The last time I went in there, she gave me the _look_.”

“What look?”

“You know the one.”

Rory bit back a smile.  “I know the one?”

“You must. You taught it to her.”

“Logan, she’s five months old.  She has three moods: happy, not quite as happy, and gassy.  There was no _look_.”

“Okay, fine. There was no look. It was an expression, then, a countenance.  I’ll fall on your thesaurus, m’lady.” Logan did a jaunty bow and Rory rolled her eyes. “Is it so hard to believe that our daughter would portray an emotion via her beautiful, tiny face, even as I was unfastening her diaper?”

“You’re being obtuse.”

“Am not. You know I’m as acute as a button.”

Rory groaned.  Luke had to have taught him more dad jokes the last time they visited.

“I know she’s angry with me, Rory, because when I was changing her diaper, I happened to glance down at her, and she was hard core giving me the dimples.”  He said it like their five month old had been casually flipping him the bird.

“Hard core, you say.”

“Yes, hard core.”  Logan said, almost defensive. He looked a little sheepish at her clear amusement with his word choice. “What? I learned it from the youths.”  

“Ah, the youths.”  Rory crossed her arms over her chest.  This day was shoving itself over the hill of _weird_ and straight into the valley of _absurd._ “What on earth are you talking about.  First of all, the dimples are cute, Logan.  What kind of monster doesn’t want to get the dimples?”

“If these were dimples of anything close to pleasure, I’d take them all day long.  I’d submit the smiling dimples to Gerber for consideration as their next spokesbaby.  But these are not dimples of satisfaction, Ace. No. These are dimples of discontent.  No one wants to be the recipient of the Dimples of Discontent.”

Rory frowned.

“Yes, those! Exactly!” Logan pointed an accusatory finger at Rory’s disgruntled face.  “My fragile ego can’t take it.”

“If she’s really teething, maybe it helps her gums to get some relief.”

“It seems more personal than that, Ace.”  Logan started up the stairs, and Rory wasn’t sure if they were mid-fight or flight, so she followed him just to be on the safe side. As Logan started unbuttoning his dress shirt, Rory realized that he intended to go change into his sleeping clothes and she was going to be the unlucky one who was about to encounter whatever chagrined expression Bea intended to communicate, even after she'd emerged victorious in _Rock, Paper, Scissors_.  “Maybe she senses her father is about the leave the country for 10 days.” Logan half-shouted from the walk-in closet.

“Maybe she’s tired of the phone ringing.” Rory shouted back, before she started her long walk down the hall to find out exactly what Bea’s most recent bout of righteous indignation was really trying to tell them.  “And she gets the dimples from you!”

To no one’s shock, Logan chose not to acknowledge Rory’s dig about the attorney calls, and she was barely halfway out the door before he’d completely changed the subject.  “I think this whole missing passport thing might be a sign, Ace.” Rory could hear hangers clanging and sliding up and down the bars of the closet as Logan sorted through clothing pockets in search of the booklet.  “If I find it or not, honestly, I don’t think it’s a great idea if I go. You shouldn’t have to handle things without me, and it’s not like they really need me in Europe. It’s all just a formality. A show. A little smoke and mirrors to keep the board happy.  But Bea, she needs me. There are too many developmental milestones I could potentially miss. And so much growth.  I was reading What to Expect the First Year and they were saying that babies Bea's age tend to have growth spurts around this age.  I shouldn't miss a growth spurt, Ace, she could double in size while I’m gone!”

Rory poked her head into the closet, where Logan had been completely and utterly swallowed into a sea of worsted wool and was invisible to the naked eye except for a pair of ankles and socked feet. “Logan, if that baby doubles in size in the next ten days, I’ll call Guinness first and then the pediatrician.  It’s really just a few days, just a blip on the radar of growth spurts, in the grand scheme of things.”

When he didn't produce an immediate rebuttal, she counted her argument as a win.  “Ugh, I found it.”  Came his muffled voice and a few seconds later, Logan finally emerged from the walk-in wearing a pair of black track pants and a faded t-shirt leftover from his days at Exeter. And from the looks of things where the soft cotton strained against his pecs and biceps, Logan had the potential to rip right out of the thing if he flexed the wrong way.  His hair had morphed from artfully ruffled to just plain adorably rumpled as he’d changed and at that, her chest flooded with a familiar fond warmth. Logan caught her staring and wrinkled his nose, making him look closer to the age he was when he originally bought the t-shirt than the one listed on his current identification. Sure, it was the same nose that was part of the same face that had probably launched a million of Rory’s collective ships over the years, but it was still a face that she loved immeasurably.  

Man, did she love him. From the knowing smirk that always evolved into a glowing smile she thought had potential to power a small European country to the fine crinkles that he’d earned at the corners of his eyes from conveying that same smile to people throughout the years, and she loved all of it.  Even when he was being impenetrably obstinate, she loved that face. ”See something you’re interested in?” It was douchey and something she’d normally scoff at and quip about but today was different and she’d let it slide. Instead, she practically ran to him, throwing her arms around his torso, and enveloping him in what seemed to be her thousandth impromptu squeeze in the last few weeks. It was like she thought he was likely to disappear or something. “I do appreciate the enthusiasm.”  Logan said, patting her back, as she clearly constricted his lung capacity. “I just don’t know if I deserve it. To what do I owe this latest armful of Ace?”

“Just...just take it, Logan. Don’t look a gift hug in the mouth.”

“I would never.”  His open palm was a warm, solid weight on her head as he smoothed at her hair with her cheek pressed against his chest. She never stopped being amazed at how solid and unyielding he was physically, even though he was so soft and pliant in so many other ways.  “Hey, you know, I promise I’m fine. I was joking about the tumor. And I will get Bea, no matter what message her face is conveying, because I am a big boy and I can take it.”

“I know you’re fine.  You just...I love your dumb beautiful face and I didn’t want you to walk away without telling you.”

His warm laugh vibrated against the length of her torso as it pressed up against his.  “My dumb face thanks you for the interest. Remind me to wear this twenty year old shirt more often then, cause apparently it’s a real babe magnet.”

"Babes of all ages," she said as she pushed him playfully toward the nursery and another night of attempting to soothe the savage Bea.

Rory would readily admit that she wasn’t much of a mind reader, and god knew that she sometimes took too long to read the signs of things that were right there in the open, but as the night progressed, Logan didn't seem any more or less out of sorts than he had been lately.  They tag-teamed their parenting duties and traded quick kisses as they rotated tasks and negotiated peace with Bea, who remained inexplicably restless throughout the evening.  The newly located passport sat like a beacon on the coffee table and more than once, Rory caught Logan staring it down like he was summoning the strength to even want to use it in the next few days. And if he could manage to dial up that kind of fortitude, it was only fair that Rory could do the same and finally design a way to artfully approach his lack of desire to get closure about his parents, and what that might mean for his mood.

But as they settled into bed, exhausted and finally existing in a pocket of blissful cry-free stillness, it seemed much more important that they sleep.

 


	6. Paul Simon Said It First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Logan's POV and the next chapter probably will be too. I'm building up to something and these next few chapters will reveal it...

“Come back to bed, Logan,” a sleepy Rory commanded from a cocoon of comforters, sometime north of midnight.  

 

“Soon,” Logan responded from the desk where his laptop was open.  

 

But he knew it wouldn’t be soon because his brain had apparently decided to pick a fight with itself tonight and everything in it was racing.  Logan didn’t have the energy or the desire to tally the total number of hours he’d spent staring at the myriad emails with list after list of options for settling details about selling his parents’ homes, but he could guarantee the total was equivalent to how many hours he’d lamented the fact that Honor had keenly left all the decision making to him, alone.  

 

The back and forth between overly-invested parties that had nothing to do with anything made him nauseous, and for as many phone calls and letters and meetings about meetings he’d managed to dodge successfully, there were twice as many that he’d somehow been looped into as an unsuspecting bystander.  

 

Right now, there was some controversy about whether or not the Connecticut house was actually an historical landmark, impacting both the seller and the potential buyer’s abilities to modify the confounded structure. Tonight, however, an associate who was looking to be made partner and upping his billables for the month had apparently found a loophole in the code that could be an answer to someone’s prayers (not Logan’s).  Thanks to the go-getter from Giant Faceless Law Firm and Greed Factory, Logan was currently embroiled in deciphering a four page email that detailed three different addendum to local ordinances that probably just boiled down to the fact that it was possible for Logan to get away with some updating if he wanted to sell at all, let along for maximum benefit. After ninety minutes of reading and rereading mind-numbing lawyer jargon, all Logan had really learned was that he’d rather provoke Paris Geller into launching into another one of her rants about the unfairness of Doyle’s screenwriting career than be forced to participate in one more conversation about what the hell he planned to do with an old ugly house he hated calling home.  Somewhere in the not so recent past, Colin had offered to convert the hallowed halls into a budget bed and breakfast and Logan was ungodly close to taking him up on it because at least it meant a resolution.

 

Logan rubbed at his burning eyes as he tried to remember the last time he’d slept more than three consecutive hours or even a time when he was still physically capable of it.  Just that evening, he’d been blissfully curled around Rory, her warm breath puffing against his throat, and without warning or preamble, he’d been awoken by a freight train running through his chest. It had caused him to bolt upright, sweat rolling down his back, and he couldn’t seem to orient himself to why or what or when. It was almost as if his body had begun to summarily reject the notion that it required any kind of rest or rejuvenation at regular intervals, so he just...didn’t.  For weeks he’d been attempting to excuse it by claiming that he’d inherited his dad’s ability to function on four hours a night, but he wasn’t Thomas Jefferson or Mitchum Huntzberger. He was still just a guy who craved some semblance of restedness that he couldn’t seem to achieve.

 

Soft footsteps fell behind him and it took a few seconds to realize that Rory’s place in their bed had been vacated. Rory’s silhouette reflected in his laptop screen and her outline appeared to be carrying a glass.  “Whatcha got there, Ace? You been night-cooking again?”

 

“I brought you some warm milk,” she said in a somewhat unnecessary whisper as she crept up next to his elbow.  “And some Ambien, if that doesn’t work.” She set both down next to his hand where it rested in a closed fist on the desk.

 

“I like that you covered your bases.” Logan stretched his arm behind him so that could catch Rory around the waist and reel her in closer.

 

“It’s a long walk down those stairs, it’s important to be prepared.” She shrugged, gently pushing the glass toward his hand. “I’ve never really understood warm milk and its sleep related properties, or why anyone would want to drink it.  If it’s not coffee, it seems pointless.” When Logan didn’t immediately take it, she lifted the mug, sniffed, and making a face, placed it back down next to the computer. “I’d try the Ambien first.”

He honestly hated the way Ambien made him feel, all muzzy and fogged, and he was doing fine feeling like that without any chemical aid.  Rory had already made the effort, winding her way out of their cozy bed in the middle of the night because of him, so the least he could do was try the warm milk.  It seemed quaint enough, anyway, and he knew the milk was fresh since he’d just picked up a new carton on his way home. Logan lifted the mug tentatively to his lips and then more confidently took a long pull of the warm liquid, coughing a little when he realized its full temperature.  “It’s got a little hair on it, I see.” It didn’t taste bad, per se, plus Rory had tried to doctor it up a bit with some vanilla and nutmeg, so it mostly just tasted like the ghost of hot chocolate. He blew on the top of the mug and took a more restrained sip the second time.

 

Rory stared at him expectantly, like she was waiting for him to clutch his throat and croak,  _Rosebud_.

 

Really, it wasn’t half bad, Logan thought.  It was actually kind of...fortifying, or something. He didn’t exactly feel any more drowsy, but his stomach was, at the very least, warm and sated.  “It’s good, Ace. Five stars. Would recommend.” He even yawned to reinforce his point.

 

Satisfied with her successful food experiment, Rory leaned over to drape her arms around his neck, and pushing a kiss into his nape, brushed her lips over the the knob of his spine.  He shivered. “I’m glad you like it.”

 

“Mm, babe, this is above and beyond…”

 

Rory swung around so that she sank down into his lap, and Logan suddenly felt much less interested in his email correspondence or in dairy products at increased temperatures as her nose bumped against his in search of his lips.  “Come to bed, Logan, I’ll help you sleep.”

 

“You got a mallet in there you’re gonna knock me over the head with?” He said into Rory’s mouth.  Her fingers cupped his face and kissed him slowly and deliberately enough to drive all the blood in his head straight in the other direction, and he forgot for a second what was even keeping him awake in the first place.

“Whatever turns you on, baby.” Rory said in her most come hither tone and Logan leaned his head against her shoulder in mock defeat.

 

“Sold.”

 

Taking Logan by the hand, Rory led him back to the warm hive of her sleepworn duvets, and Logan found himself beneath Rory as she laid on top of him, covering his limbs with her own.  Together, they pulled Logan’s v-neck over his head, and Rory dropped scores of kisses on his chest and ribs and stomach. She lingered tenderly over one of his scars, where the doctors had gone in to breathe air back into his collapsed lung, and her breath tickled as she hesitated. “I almost lost you, then.”

 

“But you didn’t.” He didn’t like to think about that time, when they didn’t trust each either enough to tell each other what was happening in their own heads and instead, did stupid, almost irrevocable things.  His stomach dropped a little when he realized that he was essentially doing the same thing now, only with no plans to base jump. Rory leaned her forehead against his chest, and he watched as it rose and fell with each of his uneven breaths.  “Hey, Ace, I’m right here.” He looped his arms gently around her, pulled her tightly to his chest, stroking her back. He wasn’t exactly sure which one of them needed more convincing at the moment.

 

Logan _wanted_ to tell her what was happening in his head: his doubts, his fears, this weird sense that he wasn’t ever going to be enough; everything.  How she was the only person that he ever wanted to be better for, that she’s the first person that he’s ever wanted to make happy. That he knew that he loved her really, really soon, but he was so unused to that feeling that he didn’t know that was what it was until he almost lost her.  That he feels like he could still lose her again. That he doesn’t feel like himself. He’s empty and aching and he doesn’t even know why, and damnit Paul Simon for having that thought first. He could be honest and all that would be left would be to deal with the fallout, together. It sounded so simple.  Just say it. Say _something_.

 

But the words were all jumbled, stuck like molasses in his throat.  Rory moved so that her head lodged into his neck, her hair tickling his chin, her hands snaked underneath his shoulder blades from under his biceps.  “I don’t ever want to feel that helpless again.”

 

“Me neither.” Even if he felt that helpless right now.

 

She rose up to give him a sweet kiss, and Logan swept her hair out of her eyes as she settled back on his chest.  Logan dragged his hand down Rory’s spine, traced patterns between her shoulder blades. “Hmm, you’re gonna put me to sleep instead of the other way around,” she slurred into his collarbone.  

 

“Dipping into the warm milk, I see.  It’s fine, Ace, I’m fine. Go to sleep.” Rory shifted, curling along his side, her arm still hooked around his waist, hand resting possessively on his hip.  The laptop was still open on the desk but it didn’t exactly call to him enough that he planned to extract himself from the warmth and comfort he was currently experiencing.  After a few minutes laying in Rory’s arms, something in his brain almost seemed to unfurl, and the relaxation blanketed his limbs with a strange sense of calm.

 

_Who knew warm milk could be so curative?_

 

His brain had maybe shut down long enough, with the warm weight of Rory nestled into his arms and her deep, even breathing, that it ended up lulling him into what might have been considered a semi-meditative state.  It wasn’t sleep, but it was close enough, and he was glad to have it.

  
Even with the extra rest, Logan stumbled through his morning shower and shave feeling like he’d spent the night running a marathon instead of savoring time spent with Rory.  He grabbed his workout clothes in hopes that stealing an hour at the gym might be the key to activating the seemingly dormant dopamine in his brain; there was still a pleasure center in there somewhere.  One of the perks of being the CEO of a major corporation was access to the private executive gym near his office, but running on the treadmill with his desk a hundred feet away always seemed to feel a little _hamster on a wheel_ , _you’re in the rat race now_ to Logan, so he avoided the whole thing as often as possible.  But it was cold and soggy outside and he was still a little cold and soggy inside, so he was going to give in and just be the executive rodent that he never wanted to be.

 

The workout elevated his mood enough to slog through the first half of another work day and  perform listlessly in back to back meetings, one of which appeared to be a meeting about another meeting.  At lunch, a salad that Fran had brought to his desk without comment (he had to eat the salads outside of Rory’s watchful eye or else suffer the accompanying rabbit jokes), his newly assigned assistant stood at his desk, her gaze narrow.   “Can I help you, Fran?” He and his lettuce were both a little frozen in mid-air.

 

“I had the chef sneak a little bacon in it for you.” Fran said, conspiratorially.

“Fran, you are a dream.”  He finally managed to consume the forkful that he’d been holding aloft, and damn did bacon improve a lot of things.  Still she stood at his desk, looking a little like a wax statue of a gargoyle that had come to life and was confused and frightened about her new surroundings.  He raised an eyebrow. “Was there something else?”

 

“Your sister is here.”

 

Logan dropped his fork and rose from his chair.  “Well, what is she doing out there? Fran, you buried the lede! Get her in here!”

 

“Your father didn’t like taking guests during his lunch.”

 

“Fran, I can’t begin to tell you all the things that I am not going to do the way my father did them, but it starts here, with guests.  Anyway, Honor isn’t a guest, she’s my sister. We used to take baths together, for the love of God, she can handle watching me eat a salad.”

 

Fran nodded, and slowly backed out of the room as if Logan was going to unleash some other kind of holy hell for her transgression, and it was then that Logan vowed that he needed to give Fran a three month vacation and a masseuse at her desk for all that she must have endured after thirty years of indentured servitude to his dad.  “Will do, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me--” Logan called after her, but Honor had already taken up the space Fran had previously occupied.

 

“Well, I certainly won’t call you late for dinner, little brother.” They met halfway for a little squeeze and mid-air cheek kiss and Logan settled back into his chair to resume his lunch.

 

Honor sat across from him, tapping a rhythm against the front of his desk—his father's desk, he realized quickly—and then he took a half a second dithering about whether or not to have the damn thing exorcised.

 

“So to what do I owe this honor, Honor?” Today, his sister’s blonde hair was pulled back into a low ponytail and she was dressed in a cashmere sweater set and velvet cigarette pants.  Sometimes it took his breath away how much she resembled their mom seeing as Honor was always just a pair of shoulder pads and a wild look in her eye away from it at any given time. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Oh, you know, I was just nowhere near the neighborhood and wanted to pop in, say hi, see how things were going.”

 

“It’s going.”  He took a generous bite of salad and busied himself chewing. It was Honor’s turn to study him and it seemed like he needed to make a better showing, make it worth her while. At home he was always trying to fly under the radar of Rory’s scrutiny, but with Honor, he could release his feathers of crazy like a peacock and she’d barely bat an eyelash extension.  More benefits to growing up in a household where your mother had a nervous breakdown anytime the gardener forgot to rotate the hydrangea colors along the portico. “It turns out that being the boss is not as exciting as they make it out to be. I almost never get to shout, “Off with their heads!””

 

“I think you’re confusing CEO with King, sweetie.”

 

“I always did sleep through career day.”

 

Honor gave a little laugh. “It never stops amusing me that this is your career now.  All those fights with Dad at every family dinner, and for what?”

 

Logan felt his smile slip and his expression instead stuck somewhere between horrified and infuriated.  “I’m where I belong. The heir apparent, apparently.”

 

“Oh, Loge, you know I didn’t mean it in a snide way, I promise! It’s just...I know how much you struggled with it, and look at you now! Mom and Dad would be proud.”

 

Logan snorted. “Ha. That’s a laugh.  I think we both know that if they were around to see this, they’d still barely tolerate my choices.”

 

“Okay.  You win. They’d moderately condone this behavior and continue their constant belittlement of any and all action on your part,” Honor smiled thinly.  “Is that better?”

 

“It’s more accurate a picture, yes.”  Logan felt himself closing off, wishing Fran would pop her head in and tell him the building was on fire.  Something.

 

“How’s Bea?” Honor changed tracks and he found himself sighing a little in relief.

 

“Growing like a weed.  She’s moved onto rice cereal and it’s a love/hate relationship, but it sure does help her sleep through the night.” Logan couldn’t remember the last time they’d played Stare into Daddy’s Soul and he felt a pang.  His little girl was growing up.

 

Honor didn’t seem to notice he’d gone all Cats in the Cradle on her and once again, the obliviousness of his family reigned supreme. “Sleep is key, definitely.  But Logan, I think I might have stepped in it with Rory a few weeks ago.”

 

“How so?” Logan raised an eyebrow.  

 

“I may have,” she studied the strap of her Hermes purse, “I may have alluded to the fact that you seem depressed.”

 

Logan almost choked on a bite of bacon.  “You did what now?” Well, that would certainly explain why Rory kept prodding him to talk to her like he’d murdered the postman and was still stashing the body and the stolen mail in some dark recess of their house.

 

“Logan, you have to admit, you’re not yourself.”

“Nope,” He turned his name plate around, double checked the lettering, gave Honor a quizzical look.  “That’s absolutely me.” Logan pushed his salad further up his desk and set his fork down across the lid.  Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling very hungry anymore. Maybe this is why his dad didn’t like lunch guests. It was becoming clear that there were definite advantages to a solitary meal and he hated how slowly he was learning some of them.  “Honor? What?”

 

At least she had the decency to seem somewhat sheepish about the whole thing, but why the hell hadn’t Rory mentioned anything?  Did he seem so fragile that the women in his life had to conspire about his well-being? Things weren’t hunky-dory all the time but he was coping well enough, wasn’t he?

 

“Baby brother, you’re miserable here.  Since mom and dad died, you’ve barely done anything for yourself.”

 

“Haven’t done anything for myself?” He’d had thirty five years of pretty much only doing that, and until Rory came back, look where it had gotten him. “Honor, I know we just discussed the small person that lives with Rory and I, but she’s still pretty dependent on me to do, oh you know, all the things.” His heart was starting to beat a little faster, too fast, and sweat quickly beaded up on the back of his neck because how was this even a topic of conversation.  How.

 

“I know that, Logan, but what about everything else?  When the kids were born, Josh helped all the time but he still had a _life_.”

 

“You’re saying I don’t have a life?” His stomach clenched.

 

“When did you do your last stunt?  When was the last time you and the boys did something frivolous?”

 

“We ate large pieces of Kobe beef and drank aged whiskey…” Logan did some quick mental calculation.  “Jesus, was that three months ago now?”

 

“Since when is steak and whiskey a stunt? Because if it is, I’ll enroll Josh in the Flying Wallendas pronto.”

 

“You should see Colin’s triglycerides.” Logan joked lamely. “I’m not depressed.  I’m just--Jesus, I’m not 25 anymore. It can’t always be a spectacle.”

 

“No one’s asking you to cross the Seine on a highwire here, Logan sweetie, but you have to admit, things with you are different.”

 

“Of course they are, they have to be!” He pounded his fist against the desk for emphasis and surprised both of them as much as if he’d just called their conversation to order by banging his shoe like he was Nikita Khrushchev.  “Honor,” he said in a much lower, more controlled tone that didn’t remind him of Mitchum’s, especially since he could sense the presence of the red vein that had just popped out in his forehead, “Honor, I have to be different because my life is different.  I have a family of my own and I couldn’t...I can’t jeopardize that. Not at all.” He sputtered, rubbing his head.

 

“I’m sorry, Logan, I didn’t mean--I’m just--”  She couldn’t even make a full sentence and Logan felt like a giant heel for scaring her like he had.  She was three catatonic blinks away from Shira-dom. “You’re fine.”

 

“I am, Honor.  I really…” Maybe he could tell her what kept getting stuck around Rory.  Just even about the lawyers. Or the not sleeping. One easy thing and maybe he wouldn’t be walking around like a zombie all the time and everyone could quit worrying and pressing pamphlets about depression into his hands every time they saw him coming toward them.  Then he could go back to being the regular, semi-capable, mostly adult person they all knew and loved. “Y’know, I’d love it if you wanted in on all this fun settling the estate stuff.”

“Oh Logan,” she got that miniature-Shira-wild-colt look in her eye again, and Logan knew that he couldn’t do that to her, even if it did have potential to immensely lighten his mental load.  She’d given it to him to handle and he’d handle it. “You know how all that stuff makes me--”

He waved away her hand-wringing.  “I know, I’ve got it, Hon. I’ve got it.”  

 

They sat in awkward silence for a minute, while Logan stared a hole into his abandoned fork and Honor seemed to look everywhere but at her brother, and finally, blessedly, they were interrupted by a miraculous yet insistent rapping on Logan’s office door.

 

“Mr. Huntzberger, Tokyo is on line 2, and I believe it’s about the merger.” Fran’s grey head popped halfway in the door and Logan hadn’t felt such a surge of affection for the old bat in all the time he’d worked there.  

 

Honor didn’t need much more prodding than vague impending business and she had her purse in her hand and was standing in the space Fran had vacated within seconds.  “You, Rory, and Bea really need to come out to our place the next time we get together. JJ has a new treehouse that Bea would just love.”

 

“Of course, sis, we’ll get it on the books.” Hands inexplicably clammy, Logan pushed his chair back and crossed the room to hug his sister goodbye, even if he mostly wanted to strangle her.  “I’m glad you stopped by.”

 

She stuttered, “Me, me too,” and Logan felt like a giant asshole for making her feel bad.  Honor was looking out for him, even if it felt like criticism. She had a right. “Tokyo waits for no man,” Honor pointed to the phone, where Logan could see that the light wasn’t even blinking.  “Knock ‘em dead, heir apparent.” She slipped through the large wooden door and into the elevator, where she immediately started digging in her purse, for what Logan assumed was either her cell phone or an emergency cigarette.

 

“Fuck,” he said, hopefully softly enough that Fran, who was sitting three feet away and tuned in like a hawk, wouldn’t hear.  \

Logan eased back behind the desk and bellowed, “Put Tokyo through,” and waited for his phone to buzz with some crisis that he didn’t have the energy to put right.  Instead, Fran edged back through the office door.

 

“Huh, I must have been mistaken, there’s no one on the phone.”

 

“Fran, you old so-and-so.” It was a planned rescue mission and he could have kissed her. He didn’t, but he did consider just putting his head flat on the desk and taking a brief nap, he was so relieved.

 

“It sounded...I didn’t mean to pry, Mr. Huntzberger, but sometimes it’s best for digestion if one eats their lunch in peace.”

 

“You’re a wise woman.” Logan raised his half-drunk coffee mug in salutation to his aging assistant.  “I appreciate the save.”

 

“You didn’t need to be saved, Logan, you needed to digest.” Fran didn’t smile, even though he’d half expected her to.  They weren’t quite to private jokes yet, apparently. She seemed planted in her spot, like she was waiting on a tip or a dismissal.

 

He glanced at his calendar, which before Honor’s pop-in had contained at least three more appointments and was now suddenly wide open. “There’s nothing else on my schedule this afternoon, Fran, is that right?”

 

She shrugged.  “There were some cancellations,  Mortensen needed to reschedule because his wife went into labor with the twins,” Fran lifted her head to look him straight in the eye, which Logan could guarantee she didn’t do with Mitchum, “and you seemed like you could use a quiet afternoon.” Nope, that she definitely would not have needed to do _that_ for Mitchum. “You’re nothing like your father, you know.”

 

Logan jumped.  “Jesus, Fran, are you in my head now too?”

 

“You just said, you never would have needed to do that for Mitchum,” Yep, he was definitely, 100 percent, call in the straitjackets, losing it.

 

“I know.” He said petulantly, as if this woman wasn’t attempting to save his life right now.  Logan reached up to loosen the knot in his tie because clearly some circulation to his head was obstructed.  “Um, look, it’s just that—“

 

As if she was equally as allergic to the earnest conversation she was about to be thrust into, his father’s former employee had been edging slowly toward the door, probably worried that saying as much as she had not directly relating to HPG business was going to get her first dibs on the Unemployment line in the morning.  “I understand, Logan, and it’s okay. I’ve spent a lot of hours behind these doors, and I’ve learned plenty about how things work for Huntzbergers.”

 

Logan bit back his response of, _well, that makes one of us._ “Yeah?”

 

“It was always hard for your father to sit back and let other people make decisions.  HPG, you know now from experience, there isn’t a lot of unilateral decision-making here.  You’ve got the vice presidents, and the subsidiaries, and the legal teams, and god forbid you get anything past them and to the Board.”

 

“Yes, Fran, I’m aware of the infrastructure. I read the memos.  Mostly.” He felt Fran’s stare prickle at his skin. “Okay, I read the subject lines of the memos,” he admitted in a mumble.

 

“Mr. Huntzberger was always fighting for something, every day.  Every day that he worked, he had a goal that he wanted to accomplish.”

 

“Like for instance, today my goal was to eat this salad and read the third quarter projections in relative peace.  It’s not exactly getting shortlisted for the Pulitzer, I know, but at the time, it felt attainable.” From the look on Fran’s face, that statement didn’t even register on the scale of crappy things that had been said to her during her tenure at HPG.  

 

“I have faith that it can be, Logan.” She smiled.  “My late husband, Edgar, he loved to study Greek mythology, and when I’d come home from work exhausted, he’d always compare this place to Typhon.”

 

“The father of all monsters? I don’t know if I like where this is going, Fran.”

 

“He struck fear in the hearts of everyone, even the Gods of Olympus.  He fought with Zeus for ten thousand years. He didn’t sleep.”

 

“I know some people like that, sure.”  

 

“Your father didn’t sleep.  He thought he had to always have his finger on the pulse of something, somewhere.  It made him who he was. It made this company what it is.” Fran looked Logan up and down.  “It didn’t stop things outside of his power from happening, though. And it’s definitely not how it always has to be.”

 

“You angling for a four day work week here?”

 

“I’m angling for you to take better care of yourself.”  Maybe she had been listening at the door. Who cares, she’d gotten the awkward silence taken care of and by the time he and Honor caught back up to each other, neither of one of them would remember what it was all about.

 

“Hey, I ran five miles on the treadmill this morning and I’m having salad for lunch.  I’m practically Rocky.”

 

“You have a much better sense of humor than your father.”

 

“I know that’s supposed to be a compliment, but--”

 

“You’ve been doing a good job, Logan, better than anyone could have expected.”

 

He scoffed.  “They all thought I’d burn this place to the ground, didn’t they?”

 

Fran hesitated, then walked back into the office to sit in the chair across from his.  She looked ridiculously frail sitting there, and Logan wondered exactly how far past retirement age she’d actually gotten, and why hadn’t his father let this poor woman go enjoy her twilight years, for God sake.  “They didn't know what you were capable of yet."

 

"That sounds like a yes."

 

Fran ignored the attempt at self-deprecation, "I still remember when you first got into Yale, and you decided that you were going to major in English.”

 

“You would have thought I had just declared myself for the NBA draft, the way my dad reacted.  He kept calling me a dreamer. Head in the clouds, boy, is William Shakespeare going to write your paycheck?” Logan could still hear his dad’s voice booming through the telephone, because Logan had promptly found his way into the middle of an ocean so as to mitigate the exact conversation that he had been forced to have anyway.  Because if there was one thing about Mitchum Huntzberger, it was that he could hunt you down and find you, no matter what hole you were hiding in. They should have sent Mitchum after bin Laden, saved a lot of lives and money. “I believe that I told him that since he was in publishing, then, yes.”

 

“So you know that there’s still a place here for that, right?  Being the dreamer.”

 

Logan shrugged.

 

“Well, there is.  Some people aren’t afraid of dreamers.  Some people call them visionaries.”

 

Now it was time for Logan to examine exactly what vibe it was that he was giving off to Fran that had prompted this turn of psychoanalysis.  “Well, that’s kind of you, but-”

 

“I just thought that you should know, Logan, a lot of people see you as only having one foot in the door here, and now with Mitchum gone, you finally have the freedom decide if you bring the other one in with you, or if you shut the door entirely.”

 

All the ways he didn’t have freedom swam to the top of his brain and he bit his tongue so as not to frighten the poor woman even more than he already had so far today. Logan’s cell phone lit up and he watched as a text chain from Colin, Finn, and Robert popped onto the screen, a myriad of fast moving messages and zingers lining up to be read.  He turned the phone over. “I made my choice, Fran. I’m here. This giant mythological creature of a company remains at the head of its field and I am the face of it.  What choice haven’t I made?” He could feel the red creeping up his chest and neck, slowing filtering into his cheeks.  The second time in less than a half hour. Goddamnit, he was Mitchum.

 

This time Fran didn’t dither.  “You might be the face of a mythological creature, Mr. Huntzberger, but you’re not the heart, and it’s definitely not yours.  You still have plenty of choices to make, and I am certain that your wife and your daughter will be proud of whatever you choose.”  

 

With that, she pried herself out of the chair (Jesus, Logan was going to do a Google search for a traveling masseuse as soon as she passed through the door) and shuffled back into the outer office to stand guard against encroaching enemies and/or new appointed vice presidents.  Logan pushed his uneaten salad into the trash and stared at the enormous line of texts that had populated his phone while he and Fran had been having their...conversation was maybe too strong a word, frankly. Scrolling back to the beginning seemed like more work than he was willing to do, and anyway, it was mostly Robert kvetching about the price of leather since the new tariffs had been enacted and Collin and Finn making innuendo about anything that Robert said.

 

Logan deleted the thread and clicked on Excel so that he could return to staring at spreadsheets of numbers that meant only slightly little more than Collin’s last double entendre about flesh chandeliers. His eyelids ached and there was a new throbbing at his right temple and who the hell would know if he took a little nap over there on the leather tufted sofa.  Aside from the way the buttons left indentations in your face that seemed to serve as evidence of your failures, the damn thing was practically born for executive afternoon dozes.  

 

The rest of the work day passed in a haze of post midday nap grogginess.  It wasn’t slow and it certainly wasn’t fast, but Logan closed down his desktop computer at a quarter after six and began the commute home to Connecticut so he could rock his daughter to sleep and have a weekend that didn’t involve a single speck of Huntzberger Publishing Group work.  And that was how he decided to convince himself for another afternoon that he certainly wasn’t turning into Mitchum Huntzberger, the Younger.

+++

Saturdays were turning in Rory’s errand days, or what she liked to call, sweet sweet freedom.  

 

She’d left Logan and Bea to their own devices so that she and her mom could meet up for lunch to plan their agenda for while Logan was off gallivanting in Europe, and if a pedicure ended up happening after they ate, so be it.  Logan didn’t begrudge her that, at all, because he knew that staying home with Bea all week while he worked and commuted was no picnic.

 

And he knew definitively that it wasn’t a picnic because he was currently having what had to be the opposite of one in Rory’s absence.

 

Things had started off okay, because he and Bea had read some Didion together and then they’d taken a nice long walk around the grounds to explore the changing leaves and whatever the visiting gardener had decided to do with the azaleas near the pool house.  The wind had turned a little cooler than Logan liked for it to be with Bea, so he’d hustled them back in for a bottle and what should have been Bea’s afternoon nap.

 

Should have, being the operative words.  It had already been the better part of an hour and no amount of patting, bouncing or murmuring seemed effective in dissuading Bea from releasing one indolent sob after another.  Bea wasn’t wet, she wasn’t hungry, she didn’t have a temperature, and she certainly wasn’t having anything that Logan had to offer. He’d already tried shifting Bea’s positions, alternating carrying holds, and bicycling her legs to combat non-existent gas bubbles.  When those had failed, and giant tears wove sluggishly down her cheeks, he’d sung, cooed, bounced and even attempted to perform a impressive yet probably more comedic Irish jig, but nothing he did even remotely appeared to brook any modicum of change.

 

Bea could probably sense how uncertain he was, his fear radiating off of him like noxious fumes.  The desperation he felt to soothe her probably only compounded his unsettled persona. There was no reason why he shouldn’t have been able to care for his own daughter for an afternoon while her mother had a well deserved afternoon to herself, but there they were, both of them on the edge of their own sanity and no end in sight.

 

He paced. He rocked. He bobbed and swayed and bent his knees and did those little dips that made him feel like a giant dork but that Rory always made look nimble, effective, and downright sexy.  

 

Still Bea sobbed.

 

“It’s okay, baby girl.  Daddy’s here.” Logan shifted the baby from an cradled position to a more upright one against his shoulder and patted at her back in rhythm with his steps across the  nursery.

 

After a beat, Bea released a hiccupy breath and sniffled.  Logan found himself holding a breath until she bleated another displeased chorus.

 

“Bea, if you stop crying, I promise you, Daddy will buy you a pony.”  With that, the entirety of Bea’s tiny frame tensed and stiffened in his hold, and employing each and every muscle in her young body, Bea unleashed her patented and parentally dreaded Silent Scream into the already tense air.  It wasn’t something that she did often, but enough that Logan could recognize it for what it was. Terrible. Horrifying. And clear evidence of his failure to bring what he assumed was the smallest comfort to his daughter.

 

“Two ponies?”  Logan offered. The next yowl, which possessed both sound and volume, could have pierced the veil between the living and the dead.  “No ponies. Got it. Daddy won’t let the bad ponies get you.”

 

Logan was ready to lay down on the carpet and start wailing right along with the baby, because that was probably equally as productive as whatever else he’d been doing.  She was utterly inconsolable. She wasn’t wet, she wasn’t tired, it didn’t seem to be gas, there was no fever. She didn’t want to be put down, she didn’t want to be picked up; she didn’t want to be still, she didn’t want to move. With Bea a miniature howler-monkey parked over his shoulder, he managed to prepare a second bottle, which she rejected, and at a certain point, Logan had to concede that he didn’t have any solutions available to him that didn’t include texting Rory and informing her that he had hit a proverbial parenting wall.

 

_We need you.  Please._

 

**What’s wrong?**

 

_Everything. Save us from ourselves._

 

**I’m ten minutes away.  Hang in there.**

 

Rory couldn’t have been through the door for more than two minutes before all of Bea’s clamor and clangor was reduced to a slight sniffle and tiny mewls against the soft skin of her mother’s neck, her crimson cheeks fading into something more pinkish, and calm.  Rory held their daughter upright against her chest, a position that Logan had recreated not once but seven hundred times in the past two hours in his attempts to soothe her, but somehow Rory’s arms held her at just the right angle and in just the right manner. Bea leaned her exhausted head wearily against Rory’s chest, the hiccups of her ragged breathing slowly smoothing into a more regular time.  

 

“Well, I’ll be hornswoggled. It’s Rory Gilmore, Patron Saint of lost causes.”  Logan muttered, more to himself than anyone, equal parts irritated and relieved that he couldn’t somehow achieve the same result of having quickly relieved Bea’s suffering on his own.  Petty, yes. Small, probably. True, absolutely.

 

“Sometimes a girl just needs her mom.”  Rory said, dragging her hand down Bea’s back.  

 

If that was the case, then Logan really didn’t know what the hell he needed, and he retreated to the bedroom to finish packing his suitcase for London.  

 

By the time Rory had gotten Bea somewhat settled, Logan was busying himself by folding some of Bea’s laundry as it had come fresh out of the dryer, and a fire crackled in the hearth. He figured that they could both use a little warmth before he left the country for ten days.

 

“That’s it.  Where is Logan and what have you with him, you replicant cyborg you.” Rory demanded from the bottom of the staircase.

 

“What? A man can’t fold his own child’s clothing?” He casually picked up a blanket patterned with teal and purple horses and set about matching each of the corners to one another while still trying to project as masculine an image as one could be capable of in such close close proximity to cartoon equines.  “It makes me feel powerful, like I’m a giant lumbering through the village, except instead of murdering townspeople and breathing fire, I’m grabbing tiny dresses off the clotheslines. Look, ten of her shirts still don’t make one of mine!” He demonstrated by laying multiple pairs of Beas pajamas across one of his t shirts that had snuck its way into the load.  

 

Rory flopped onto the sofa cushion next to him, pushing her hand through the hair at the back of his neck.   “Whatever gets you going, sport.”

 

“Everything okay with our girl?” Logan held one of Bea’s sleep swaddles under his chin to keep it straight while he folded in half.  “I was worried, I’d never seen her like that before, so unable to settle-“ he wanted to add that it had made him unable to settle, and he couldn’t remember feeling that helpless, ever, not even when they’d first brought Bea home.  She’d been small enough to fit in a teacup, so vulnerable, and just _theirs,_ and he hadn’t been half as scared as he had been that afternoon. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like when Bea started walking, or when she learned to drive, or went to college, or did any number of things that he had absolutely zero control over.  It made him want to throw up, or burrow into a hole, or something that wasn’t _stand and face it._

 

Rory patted him reassuringly.  “You love that baby girl, I know, and I know she knows it. And she adores you, too.”

 

“What’s she said about me?” Logan finished stacking his last few pastel colored burp cloths and settled into Rory’s side.  Rory melted against him, soft and sweet and his.

 

“Mostly she says you’re big and strong and that you smell fantastic.  Like a meadow after a rainstorm.”

 

“I don’t know that our almost six month old has smelled a meadow after a rainstorm to know well enough to make that comparison.”

 

“Well, she said it with her eyes.  It might have been ozone after an earthquake or warm flannel on a Sunday afternoon.  Kids these days are so hard to understand.”

 

“Youths,” they concurred at the same time.

 

“Seriously though, why the sudden domesticity? You finish packing and feel like your urge to fold and roll still hadn’t passed?”

 

“A man’s urges to fold and roll are his business and not for public consumption, ma’am.”   Logan ran his fingers down Rory’s arm, watched as goosebumps rose in its wake. “Sorry, I’m going crazy with this traveling stuff and I needed something else to do with my hands.  Plus, the loom wouldn’t fit through the front door.”

 

Rory smiled at his attempt at a joke. “You’re worried about going away, huh?”

 

“I wouldn’t say worried so much as...I don’t want to go.” Every minute that got closer to the time listed on his plane ticket was another hash mark on the list of reasons that he should just stay home.

 

“We’ll be fine while you’re gone, babe, I promise.”  

 

Welp, there went his attempt at honesty.  Logan held a particularly dainty monogrammed onesie against his chest and turned back to Rory, “I mean, can you believe we are in charge of a human person whose entire being is contained by this swatch of fabric? My god, Rory, the universe is nothing if not an attempt to scare us all shitless.”

 

Rory laughed and petted his hair and when Bea started to cry upstairs, Logan went to fix her bottle and cuddled with her on his lap while she ate.

 

The three of them ended up spending a quiet night as a family curled up on the sofa as they watched episodes of _Nailed It_ on Netflix and Logan pretended that a ball of existential dread hadn’t been gathering in the pit of his stomach.  He didn’t want to fly to London on Monday; he didn’t want to think about houses or holdings or restaurants in Paris that needed to be liquidated.  The weekend should have been his bubble; protected, insulated. Instead, he was facing down Monday morning like it had a gun to his head and was demanding his wallet.  

 

Rory went to bed and Logan rocked Bea to sleep in the nursery, content to spend as much time as he could with her before he left for more days than he’d ever been apart from her before.  Ten days was a blip, Rory kept reminding him, but he’d only had Bea for six months, and two weeks out of six months felt enormous to him, imagine what it must have felt like to her.

 

Bea fell asleep easily, but he held her in his arms longer than was strictly necessarily, taking in her fresh baby smell and the sturdy weight of her in his arms.  The heat was turned up too high in this wing of the house or maybe it was even stuck, since after all, it was an old house with idiosyncrasies that he and Rory tended to discover and then discard because it didn’t belong to them.  He watched Bea as she slept, her mouth open and little puffs of breath raising her chest beneath the blue sleeper he’d dressed her in after she’d had her bath, curls of her sandy hair sticking with sweat to her forehead and neck, because moving to turn down the heat meant leaving Bea, and Logan wasn’t exactly ready to do that yet.

 

He leaned against the crib, allowing the crossbar to dig into his hip as he scanned Bea’s peaceful face and searched for all the ways they were the same, the things that they shared, even if it was just the line of her nose or the color of her hair.  

 

Rory had been asleep for hours by the time Logan found himself stretched out next to her soft and familiar sleep-warm form, as Bea huddled against his chest, since Logan only felt content to have his heart beat alongside his daughter’s, so that when he woke, hers would be the first face he saw; gold, pink, and brilliant like the sunrise.

  
  
  
  
  


  
  


 

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end of chapter notes for warnings...

+++

Logan Huntzberger loved to fly almost as much as he loved to sail.

The disparity was probably because he’d never been able to feel the wind on his face during an international flight, seeing as that would probably be the first sign that things were not as they should be.  This morning, though, he’d risen with a something that felt like dread making a home in his gut, burrowing deep and quiet and not-so-hidden.

It was early, still, the sun barely peeking over the trees that lined the Gilmore property, but Rory and the baby had been up for hours, and Logan was freshly shaved, showered, and dressed before his twice-set alarm had even sounded.  

“Doesn’t Daddy look handsome in his new Burberry suit?” Rory paused the baby’s flight in mid-air as she regarded the pristine fabric with a keen eye, “Um, she just ate and that isn’t exactly a Men’s Wearhouse knock-off, dude.” A few moments passed while Rory considered the baby’s optimal potential for destruction and Bea’s infant legs dangled forlornly between her parents as she patiently awaited the verdict.

Logan _tsked_ and dismissed Rory’s not completely unfounded concern with a wave of his hand, his voice already going into that higher baby-talk register. “Bea can christen all my suits if she wants to, Mommy, hand her over.” In response to her father’s disregard for all things fashionable, Bea flashed Logan an enormously gummy smile and he let himself go a little weak in the knees.  Damnit, that girl had him right where she wanted him. He was still toast as far as ponies and convertibles and _just one more hour before bedtime, please Daddy,_ could ever go.  “I’m glad you agree with me, sweet cheeks.”

Bea’s head wobbled as she cozied into Logan’s neck while Rory haphazardly threw a lavender burp cloth over Logan’s right shoulder. “C’mon you two lovebirds, let’s not make it a kamikaze mission.”

Logan buried his nose in the crown of Bea’s hair and inhaled as if he intended to use that scent to power him through his entire ten days in Europe. His daughter’s head was warm against the side of his neck as she fisted his tie and attempted to bring it up to her mouth.  “Well that oral fixation is coming along nicely, isn’t it?” Logan kissed her temple, where the fragrance of her baby shampoo always seemed to linger the longest, and he balanced his lips against her pulse there, “All right, baby girl, I know that you’ll take good care of Mommy while I’m gone but I’m still going to miss both of you terribly.”  Bea pulled back, almost as if she wanted to look him in the eye as he spoke,   “No, I know, Mommy promised that we’ll FaceTime, so technically we’ll still be able to see each other, so that will help.  Just understand that I won’t be able to put you to bed every night like we like to do, so be a good girl and don’t keep Mommy up too late.  Also, I know you were planning that riotous party, I found your texts to Uncle Finn.”

“We agreed not to call him that, Daddy.” Rory reminded in a tight sing-song tone.  Bea squealed, delighted by the banter, as she grabbed at a fistful of Rory’s hair when she came within her wingspan.  Rory lightly grasped Bea’s wrist to pull her hand away and in doing so, inadvertently wrested Bea back from Logan’s arms.

Without the warm weight of the baby against his chest, Logan’s necktie suddenly felt like it was cutting off his airway.  Logan decided then and there that he was just going to lean into the uneasy tug that was growing under his rib cage instead of ignoring it any longer.  Screw that. He leaned nonchalantly against the countertop and fixed his gaze on a point somewhere above Rory's head. “Yeah, so, I’m not going to get on the plane.”  

“Huh?” Rory gave Logan a bewildered stare and the air settled uncomfortably between them.  “C’mon.  It’s okay.  We’ll be fine.” She said finally, tucking an escaped strand of hair back behind her ear as she settled Bea back onto her hip.  

“It’s not about fine, Rory.  I know you both will be fine.  It’s me.  I’m worried that it's my fineness that's in jeopardy here.”

“You’re also going to be fine, Logan.”  

“Neither of us can say that definitely, Ace, and you know it.”  

Logan’s sentence was punctuated by an aggravated squawk from Bea, and he just wanted to hold onto her and say, " _Same_.”  Rory didn’t speak, just stood at the sink with Bea in her arms and a furrow in her brow, until the doorbell rang.

Rory paused as she walked to answer the door, stopping a few inches from where Logan stood.  “I have known for you for almost a decade, sir, and I assure you, fine is something that you have always managed, no matter the circumstances.  That’s why I love you.”  She brushed her fingers over his jawline, and eyeing the gesture, Bea went to repeat it with less than accurate results.  

Logan smiled at the dual affection, but his desire to avoid his business responsibilities increased tenfold.  “My girls.”

The door was answered and somehow, as if he hadn’t just voiced his semi-strenuous objections to leaving, his waiting suitcases were loaded with a frightening swiftness into the town car parked in the driveway.  “You go.”

“What?” Rory shifted Bea’s weight to her opposite hip and she appeared to be scanning Logan’s probably ashen face, looking for the joke.  “Logan.  I don’t work for the Huntzberger Publishing Group, so there’s that. Plus, I think they’d notice if we traded places, even for a weekend.”

“Technically, I don’t work for them either. _I own them_. I can buy and sell them.  I may, in fact, buy and sell them if that is my whim.  They answer to me--”

“All right, Pol Pot, stand down.  We get it.  You’re very powerful.”

Only Logan knew how very untrue that statement was, but he wasn’t going to chose now to admit it. He barely wanted the control he had at a Huntzberger Publishing Group and there were enough of his fathers cronies left on the board that every decision was like throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what would stick.  Or not get them arrested for insider trading.  And maybe his key to not getting on the plane was a quick call to the SEC... 

His fingertips were starting to get numb and he didn’t really want to know what that meant, so he decided that if he could just keep talking, maybe that would somehow get him the outcome he was looking for.  “And anyway, what’s to say a body swap didn’t actually occur.  I’m sure that they’ve seen a little Freaky Friday action in their time and you’re way cuter than Lindsay Lohan or Jamie Lee Curtis, not to mention, me.  Just nod a lot and look at your watch a minimum of fourteen times per half hour, and they’ll never know the difference.  In fact, the shareholders may be impressed you didn’t give in and check the fifteenth time, like I would have.”  Logan set his carry-on just outside of the front door where the driver was already throwing Rory a confused and irritated look, like maybe she could talk some sense into this rich asshole who couldn’t walk three feet to the car so he could be driven to the airport and keep to a goddamn schedule. “She had a bad night.  You had a bad night.  I’ll stay and let you get some rest.”

Rory looked at him like he just offered to skin some live housecats and serve them up for Friday Night dinner. “Logan, you need to go.”

“Okay, fine, I’ll go.” Logan conceded, “But come with me.”

“Logan.”

Logan shook his head. “No, if you come with me, I won’t get on the plane.” Another wave of discomfort swept through him, effectively drowning any resolve he may have previously possessed to power through.  “Tell me not to go.  Tell me to blow off my meetings.  Tell me that we can figure something else out.  Just tell me not to go.”

He couldn’t say he blamed Rory when she rolled her eyes.  He was acting in a manner that was completely unbecoming and he knew it. From Rory’s expression, it was apparent that she knew it too, but she was raised with enough good sense not to mention it. “Logan.  It’s ten days with no diaper changes and free, unencumbered, uninterrupted sleep.  Plus Netflix. After one night away, you’ll be begging to stay in Europe.”

“I like changing Bea’s diapers, I’m good at it.  Plus, I don’t _need_ sleep.  I think we’ve run enough experiments around here to have that hypothesis officially solved.”  And he loved those middle of the night chats with Bea, even if their communication seemed to be a little off lately.  “I just...I really shouldn’t be flying.” Truly, he wouldn’t have minded white-knuckling the door frame and holding on for dear life, even if it meant having the long-suffering (and by long-suffering, he meant _at least for the last fifteen minutes_ ) chauffeur bodily prying each of his fingers off one by one as if he was the tantruming toddler in this scenario.

“Well, lucky for you, Sport, they have some extensively trained pilots for the flying portion of today’s events.  You, you’re mostly going to be responsible for sitting.  There’s some walking, sure, but primarily it’s just, you know, the not standing.  Seatbelt on, tray table down, the whole nine. Plus, I’ve seen your sitting, and I am here to tell you, it’s very highly rated.  Top notch, your sitting.”  Logan could tell by the lightness of her tone that it didn’t even register for her that he might actually be serious about not getting on the plane, because how could she, this whole scenario was completely absurd. He was being absurd. Logan took a breath that ended up caught somewhere between his chest and his throat, and found himself becoming slowly hypnotized by the nimble swoop of Rory’s hips as she swayed with Bea, movement that lulled both himself and the baby into total and utter pliancy most of the time.

He wanted to be able to go along with the bit, act all humble and shy about his talent for not standing up, but the energy it took to uncover the humor was maybe more than he could expend at the moment.  It was no matter, though, since Rory seemed to have enough energy for the both of them.

“You know that it’s statistically safer to fly than to drive.  And while an ocean liner to Europe would be fun, it’s not exactly a timesaver. Also, icebergs and noroviruses, enemies of cruise ships everywhere.”  Rory paused, maybe attempting to assess how much logic and rational thinking had managed to seep into Logan’s brainpan as she spoke.  From his angle, it was exactly zero. “We’ll be right here when you get back.” She pointed with her toe at the leg of the sofa next to her, and it took all of Logan’s admittedly less than impressive willpower not to cannonball back onto it and burrow under a cushion as though he was a six year old playing pillow fort, which he had never in fact been allowed to play because their sofa had been imported from France _and please don’t do that with the cushions Logan, that’s silk,_ “We’ll keep the home fires burning, I promise.”

He debated confessing to her that the last time he’d boarded a plane, he didn’t really care whether or not that plane landed successfully; though, full disclosure, right after his parents’ death, he really wasn’t feeling much at all.  He’d been a great big ball of numbness for months afterward, and if he was honest, he still had a bit of that same pins and needles feeling that he hadn’t quite been able to shake out. The difference was that this time around, he had Bea awaiting his return, and suddenly Bernoulli’s principle and Newton’s third law of gravity seemed so much harder to swallow.  Like, where was the research _really._   

But his fiancée already held one baby in her arms who was ready to be put down for a nap, while another baby stood across the room, terrified he was going to be murdered by physics.  Understandably, Rory was probably starting to get a little confused about why Logan wasn’t just giving her a quick goodbye kiss and heading out the door to perform some epic transatlantic sitting, because he’d literally done it hundreds of times before, all without any type of major protest.

An impatient sound emerged from the general vicinity of the waiting driver, and it was glaringly obvious that Logan’s choices about staying or going had dwindled to the one he was least fond of and couldn’t manage to avoid.  Logan opened his arms to Rory and the baby, who thankfully, were both still willing to lean in and accept his affection as he reluctantly took his leave.  Rory laid her head on his shoulder, let him smooth at the back of her hair more for his comfort than for hers, and brushed her lips along the skin above his collar.  Bea, with her own eyes drooping closed, rested against her mother’s soft chest, and Logan bent so that he could aim gentle lips atop the wispy crown of Bea’s warm head - mostly so that he could take in that pure, sweet baby smell one last time - and so help him, his eyes stung and his chest tightened as he crossed the threshold to get into the waiting car.

The tightness didn’t really dissipate like Logan thought it would, even as he watched the straight white lines of the interstate slip under the back tires of the car he rode in, putting a seemingly impenetrable distance between himself and his family.

It wasn’t long afterward that Logan found himself retching into the questionably clean toilet in the airport bathroom over buckled knees, a cold but fervent sweat pouring down his back.

“Hey man?  Are you okay?”  Called a concerned voice from outside the closed stall door, because a pair of suited legs worshipping the porcelain in the Admirals Club Lounge probably wasn’t an everyday occurrence.  

Absently, Logan wiped at his mouth with the back of his twitching hand and wondered the exact same thing. _Are you okay?_ “Uh, yeah.”  

This made no sense.  Logan had a general sense that he'd exited the car and maybe someone at the curb had grabbed his luggage, but he definitely couldn’t place any kind of interaction with the check-in kiosk or ticketing agent.  In the back of his brain there was fuzzy recollection of being overcome with nausea and dizziness almost at the exact moment that he’d entered the terminal, but mostly what he remembered feeling like the space was too crowded, too loud, too bright, and his body needed a release, a way to keep his heart from detonating in his chest.  

Somehow he’d ended up here, on the floor of the men’s room, emptying his guts into the grungy toilet in the third stall.  His eyes watered, his throat burned, and none of his limbs appeared to be in working order.  Well, okay, maybe they still worked but he wasn’t sure _how_ , how his brain could communicate and coordinate them because that part of him seemed overstuffed, too full.  Nothing was balanced anymore.  Not that balance was going to help him get the hell out of there, considering the bands around his chest that seemed to compress with every gross motor skill he attempted to complete.

_Maybe this is a heart attack._

_It’s probably a heart attack._

_It can’t be...nope, this is definitely a heart attack._

It seemed impossible to breathe deeply enough to oxygenate his blood and as if from far away, he recognized the signs of hyperventilation only as he was experiencing them firsthand.  None of what was happening felt remotely like it was occurring in his own body, at least not the one he’d remembered living in for the past 36 years, and if he was standing beside it and watching everything happen, he felt terrible for the other poor bastard.  

And still none of it made any sense.  He was healthy.  He ran religiously and did weight training at least three times a week and ate as many leafy greens as living with Rory allowed and sure, he definitely enjoyed a malted beverage every once in a while, but generally he tended to steer pretty clear of toxins of most varieties. Hell, he’d just taken Bea on a seven mile hike through Sleeping Giant Head trail (mostly because the name of the park made Rory giggle) and he had barely been winded, not even with that confounding baby carrier contraption containing 14 pounds of precious cargo strapped to his chest.  

He should not, under any logical or rational circumstances, have been having a health crisis of any kind in a smallish metropolitan airport.

The edges of Logan’s vision blotted out as if by paintbrush making the straight lines of the ceramic tiling beyond the toilet appear fuzzy and gray.  Briefly, the thought crossed his mind that if he closed his eyes, just for a second, a millisecond, maybe he could resolve the optic portion of whatever the hell was happening.  Or maybe he’d never be able to open his eyes again. 

So Logan chose neither, opting instead to squint against the glare of the fluorescent lighting, and a new bright white pain bloomed, sharp and full.  He stayed as still as he could, as if he could become quiet and unobtrusive enough that this whole thing would pass right over top of him like a storm cloud.  But there wasn’t a cellar anywhere nearby that he could hide in and it didn’t seem likely that ceramic tile was going to open up suddenly and swallow him whole,  so Logan did the next best thing and took some slow, shallow breaths that might help get some blood flowing enough to clamber to his feet and get the hell out of this restroom and then, with any luck, this airport.  

Using the toilet paper holder and the wall of the stall as a fulcrum and lever, Logan attempted to achieve a stand, but his blood was busy rushing everywhere but his brain and he ended up landing on his haunches, like a confused cat thrown from a third story window.  “Not so fast, cowboy,” Logan said to himself, still in his partial crouch.  Maybe if he took another few seconds with the intent to hungrily gulp down another few lungfuls of air, he could stop the room from this new tilting and spinning thing it was currently doing.

“Fuck.”

He really did not feel like dying at the Hartford International Airport today.  

This was why the company had bought the damn private jet in the first place, because this was some undignified bullshit that was occurring, and they had to have known he wasn’t capable of enduring it.

As he stood both of his knees emitted a raucous _pop_ , indisputable evidence of his Life and Death Brigade misadventures rearing their well-coiffed heads, and eventually, around the dissipating spike of panic induced-adrenaline, he was able to locate and redirect enough energy to allow himself to stagger feet without ending up either back on the floor or with his head in the toilet.

And sure, the distance between his feet and his hips may have increased exponentially somehow, but eventually, he got the hang of how he used to operate all those limbs; muscle memory took hold and helped him to raise his left foot high enough to clumsily kick down the toilet handle and flush away the remains of the early breakfast that he’d shared with Rory and Bea.  It wasn’t at all surprising to Logan when his back accidentally hit the unlocked door upon dismount from his less-than-sturdy gymnastics routine, and he ended up practically falling out of the stall into the currently vacant row of sinks.

The good(ish) Samaritan had already gone, and maybe he was never even there at all; because clearly, Logan was losing it.  The well-dressed man he found watching him in the fluorescent glare of the mirror had wild eyes, ones that did not appear to be oriented to place or time or person.  His skin was a sallow gray, and the hair that wasn’t standing straight on end was plastered to his forehead with perspiration.  Logan could feel the uncomfortable dampness under his layers of suit coat, dress shirt, tie, and undershirt,  and in an effort to relieve even an ounce of his discomfort, he yanked roughly at his sleeve, a rogue button pinging off his cuff and bouncing into one of the empty stalls.  After what seemed like an endless tug of war with fabric and sleeves and stickiness, Logan was finally able to strip off his soaked undershirt and slam it into the overflowing trash can next to the sinks.  The last thing he needed was for another weary traveler to find him alone in the men's room bare-chested, so he hurriedly redressed in his sodden dress shirt and stuffed his balled up tie into the pocket of his slacks.  There was dust on his knees from where he’d genuflected at the toilet and a streak of grime from God knows what on his forehead and he’d never been more grateful to be upright.

Logan sagged against the cement trough of the sin, clucking  in disgust about the truly unfortunate state of his mouth and tongue  until he finally realized that the  black lump in the corner of room was his carry on luggage and he had unfettered access to his very own toothbrush, a fact that he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of, along with the tiny tube of Crest Whitening that he’d never been happier to see.

Scrubbing at his tongue with the head of the toothbrush, Logan’s head hummed with overexerted nerves. It took a few seconds to register that the insistent buzzing sound was actually occurring somewhere on his person instead of between his ears and he dropped the toothbrush as he fumbled to extract his phone from his pocket. “Damnit.”

His heart buoyed in his chest at the sight of the contact picture of Rory and tiny, months old Bea asleep on the sofa, identical with their dimpled chins and soft expressions, knocking his skittering heartbeat just that much more asunder.

“Heya Ace,” he croaked as he answered and any hopes of being able to conceal his near hysteria were immediately dashed. He hated how needy he sounded.  Who _was_ he now?

“You haven’t left, have you?” She didn’t take a breath to allow him to answer. “Oh my god, Logan, I am so so sorry. You should be furious with me.  I was pushing you out the door like I couldn’t wait for you to leave and I just realized why you were so freaked out, and what the hell kind of partner am I that I couldn't even recognize---”

A little bit of the unrest seemed to skim off his brain, shedding like the papery skin of a snake.  “Ace.”  The relief drifted from the top of his head and rippled down to his limb as gradually and as gently as a slow- running creek, finally allowing his knees a chance to unlock and some of the tension to leech out of his body.  “I’m not doing so great, I don’t think.”

“I know, love.  Just come home.”  The baby emitted a sweet little mewling sound near the phone, and his heart fluttered. “We’ll give Bea her bath together and we’ll sit in our jammies and read a little Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy as a family and no one will ride in any questionably aerodynamic tubes of metal across any oceans without being entirely sure about it, okay?”

It sounded amazing, doing all the mundane things they usually did on a Wednesday night. It sounded like _home._  “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I.”  He said as more of a statement than a question, and when another passenger swung into the bathroom, he was on the receiving end of a fairly righteous side-eye that only served to confirm his suspicions.  

“No, you’re really not, and I love you and Bea loves you and we need you so just come back to us, okay?  Let the airline know that you need your luggage and I’ll call Fran and have her cancel your itinerary.”  Rory kept doling out simple instructions like she thought his brain was still capable of managing any of them other than _one foot in front of the other,_ rinse and repeat, but he certainly appreciated the misplaced faith that she had in his clearly diminished capabilities.

They weren’t going to turn an enormous European-bound plane back so that Logan could be safely reunited with his favorite pants, so he decided to make peace with the fact that some of his wardrobe was now going to live with other abandoned luggage at Heathrow and probably still have a wonderful life.  It was easy to do for a lot of reasons, but primarily because he was still in Connecticut, wearing what probably weren't even his fourth favorite pants, about to have his own reunion with his absolutely favorite people.

Rory was pacing on the front step when his cab pulled in, eyes puffy and red-rimmed with worry and fear and maybe a tinge of something like guilt. But even from the backseat of the cab, Logan watched as Rory swallowed all that down, watched her expression change from uncertain to resolute.  She squared her shoulders and waved, and it was as if she’d just pulled down the mask that she often wore when encountering things that she thought were too hard to manage, but she had to soldier through.  He’d seen it lots of other times when she talked about her father, or about fights between her mom and her grandparents.  Most recently, he’d seen it when she was sad about her grandfather and still had to get up and tend to another human life.  It usually, he liked to think, was not caused through his own action (or inaction), if he could help it.  It broke his heart, again, that he’d done that, he’d caused that, and it gave his chest an ache like he’d just been sucker punched.  Whatever had happened today, whatever they chose to name it, _Logan_ was the reason Rory had had to soldier through anything, and it made him feel six inches tall.  

It took a few moments to register that it was _just_ Rory who he saw outside, and that Bea was nowhere in sight.  He’d barely been out of the cab when Rory, practically breaking into that awkward, hobbled run of hers, had thrown herself into his arms, encompassing him in her warmth and covering his face in gentle kisses. It had been ages since he’d had Rory to himself, all his, without the baby somehow sandwiched between them, and now, having the ability to press against his partner without reservation or even a centimeter of distance felt like a reprieve from death row.  He didn’t feel quite grounded yet, but definitely less unmoored.  He couldn’t drift off into the deep now, not if he was holding Rory.

His stomach hissed with unspent acid and there was something underneath that, something insidious that told him not to show her his weakness, but his legs still weren’t strong enough to carry him away.

“I thought it was going to me this time,” he said into the crook of Rory’s neck, voicing his exact fear aloud for the first time.  Her neck was the safest and most appealing place in the world besides the top of his infant daughter’s head, and he wanted to breathe in both of them until he was properly full.  Everything seemed so empty, still, even though he knew that he was on solid ground, that he was safe, that he was home.

“Hey, I'm right here.  You're okay.” Logan hadn’t quite given up on hugging Rory yet, even though they were both swaying, and he was definitely certain no one had ever allowed the Gilmore’s front door to just yawn open like it was on the broad side of a barn.  His eyes burned with a pinching feeling he knew was the start of tears, and he ground his back teeth as if that was going to somehow hold back a torrent.  Rory patted his back the way she would pat Bea after a bottle, a few short bursts followed by one long vertical line as she pulled her hand softly from shoulder blades to his lower back.  “Oh, and the next time you talk to Fran, make sure you give her a few hacking coughs for good measure.  I hear that there’s a nasty respiratory virus going around.” 

It was clear where Logan’s priorities landed because he hadn’t given one thought to all the meetings and presentations and tours that he had just completely derailed, and he was the CEO of the damn company. “Thanks, Ace. You spoil me.”

“Anytime, Huntzberger.  We’re a team, right?”

“Like Jordan and Pippen, babe.”  Rory was blessedly solid and familiar in his arms, but nothing felt completely real to him yet.  Like there was still a chance she’d float away, or maybe he’d float away, or that she was just a very lifelike panic induced hallucination, another trick of his brain.  He was quickly getting wary of all these new brain tricks, frankly.

“The musical?” She questioned as she tugged him toward the stairs.  

“Don’t pretend you don’t know sportsball references, Rory.  I know you’ve seen Space Jam.”

“I am a child of the 1990s, after all.”  She gave him a tentative smile, one that he was afraid would crack if she knew what was under the awkward jokes.  “We’ll get you all settled in bed and I’ll make you some tea. Ugh, no, tea is terrible.  It’s just water with an attitude problem. How about some warm milk?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m...I don’t think I’m ready to not bask in the comfort of your presence yet.”

“Your new greeting card line maybe needs some workshopping there, fella.  You can feel free to bask in me in my entirety, but not until after you take a nice long restful nap.”

Logan couldn’t envision the length of the nap required to achieve him feeling even fractionally rested, but it seemed like it would fall roughly somewhere between Sleeping Beauty and Rip Van Winkle. “Not yet.  Let’s stay here and talk."  He pulled Rory over to the sofa and settled in with a groan. “Welp, the world has finally cracked me open. Aren’t you glad you were here to witness it?”

“You’re not cracked open.”

“I’m a freaking pinata.” Logan insisted. “Look out, another piece of hard candy is hitting the deck.”

“Stop it.  You’re not cracked open.”

“Ace, I’m broken. You can’t tell me that whatever it was that just happened was evidence of my being wholly together.  You can’t.”

“You’re not broken, Logan, I know you’re not.”

“Prove it.”

Rory pursed her lips.  “You’re not.” It was subtle, the lie, the way he could tell she wanted to believe it.  The way she didn’t quite meet his eyes.  He held it then, collected and stored it for later, because he hated the idea of leaving the lie out in the open between them. She didn’t believe that he was okay either.  If he couldn’t be okay, maybe he just wanted to be _right_.

She cozied up into his lap, arms around his shoulders, and Logan folded himself into her curves. “I couldn't get on the plane,” Logan repeated into the safety of Rory’s neck as he felt a very real pang of nostalgia for his old brain, the one that knew how to process all this stuff without shutting down or turning him into a slack jawed idiot in public spaces.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” she glanced around, as she briefly separated from his grip long enough to get her bearings and take in the whole picture. She looked worried. He hated it.

“Did I tell you that I loved you?”

“Huh?”

“Before I left, did I tell you I loved you?”

Rory worried her lower lip under her front teeth. “Logan, you tell me everyday.” Her fingers lingered on his wrist and he couldn’t find any energy or desire to move away from her touch.

“I didn’t say it.  I could have left and not come back and I didn’t even tell you I loved you.”

“Logan, I know that you love me. You don’t even have to say it, because I know it.  I see it.  I feel it.”

“I should have told you. I could have died today and I didn’t tell you I loved you and that’s not how this was supposed to go.”

“Well a few things I’d like to unpack there, but first and foremost, at no point am I allowing you to die, so get used to the cold weather of New England because cryogenics, baby.”

“This conversation has taken a left turn at a subatomic speed.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

The adrenaline had begun to ebb from Logan’s bones and suddenly the idea of sitting on a couch seemed somehow braver than he needed to be.  

Rory looked around.  “Where’d your luggage go?”

“I would imagine somewhere over the Mid-Atlantic, by now.”

“But your favorite pants!”

“They lived a long, international life.  At least they weren’t my lucky pants.”  Logan finally brought himself to extract himself from her embrace, but left a proprietary arm slung around her neck, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her worn-out sweatshirt.  She smelled like warm baby wipes and a little bit of sour milk, and he was going to be hard pressed to let her go anytime soon.  

Something about being in the house now, with Rory’s hand nestled on the bend of his elbow, legs tenting his, made everything that just happened at the airport feel very far away.  He leaned into her space and tried to sound as non-pathetic and predatory as possible,  “Rory, a near-death experience makes a man realize where his priorities lie.”

She pulled back and gave him her patented and mostly cross _you can’t be serious_ look. “Let’s see if your priorities are still lying there after we’ve all had our bath. Your daughter managed to spit up both into my ear and then down the front of my shirt, because I think because she was angry with me for allowing you to walk out the door.”

“She didn’t seem angry when I left.” He leaned his head against hers.

“She has a touch of the Gilmore stoicism. It’s more that she stores it up, gets it good and festering, and then lets it explode at a more opportune moment.”

“Sounds familiar.”  

Rory feigned annoyance but her mouth softened after a moment, gaze locking onto his, “Seriously, Logan. I know that you’ve been invincible for so long that the idea you could be vulnerable has to throw you for a loop, but I promise you, you’re gonna be okay.”

“It was more of a corkscrew, really.” He leaned heavily into her, allowing her to hold a little more of his weight. He hadn’t realized how lightheaded he still was.  “I mean, I really thought that I was going to die, Rory.”

She moved the hand from his arm up to his cheek, her blue eyes warm and kind and home.  She planted a firm kiss on the middle of his forehead. “You’re my nightingale, kid, thou was not born for death.”

He breathed Rory in, the sweet and sour tang of her skin, and tears pricked behind his eyes again, because that’s who he was now, all soft and gooey and well aware of his own mortality. “Ooh, maybe I’ll get that tattooed...on my neck.”  He teased lightly, but he knew his voice still wavered, and the smile that Rory gave him didn’t quite erase the worry from her eyes.

“Perfect.”  Guiding his chin with a light fingertip, Rory leaned in to softly kiss his left cheek, and then his right, swung her legs off his lap and gave him a prod with two hands.  “Go get yourself comfy and Bea and I will be right in, okay?”

He was already starting to feel better. He was home. Safe. Loved.  Things had only gone wonky because he was exhausted and adjusting and his body did not feel compelled to endure a transatlantic flight or to leave his daughter behind for ten days. There wasn’t anything wrong.  No, this had never happened before, but that didn’t mean that it would happen again, and it seemed to be working its way out of his system, whatever the hell it was. And once he figured out what it was, he’d be able to control it.  

Because otherwise, it was uncomfortable and confusing and he absolutely hated everything about it.

Still not possessing the energy required to change clothes or act in a manner that was in anyway useful, Logan sat on the edge of the their still unmade bed, the sheets twisted and furled where they’d been laying just hours before.  

 _Home.  This is home._  

Logan repeated it as a mantra until the tremor and numbness in his useless hands was at least partially subdued, until the tingling in his fingertips ceased. He took a deep breath, and then another one, until he could finally identify one that felt somewhat cleansing.

He listened as Rory murmured to a stirring Bea through the baby monitor, “Daddy’s home, baby girl. He missed us too much to go back to work, didn’t he?”  Logan found himself leaning back into the comfortable outcropping of fluffy pillows on Rory’s side of the bed while he allowed her quiet voice to wash like a balm over his frayed and exhausted nerves. She continued, “We’ll go mix up a bottle, take a look at your diaper, and then you can say hi to Daddy before he goes to sleep, how about that,” and Logan’s eyelids felt as if tiny weights hung from them as he struggled to keep them aloft long enough to say goodnight to Bea.

_Home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Logan has an anxiety attack


	8. Chapter 8

Rory returned to the bedroom with a drowsy Bea in her arms, still nervously nattering away about dry diapers and full bottles to find Logan still fully dressed and spread-eagle on their bed, completely and utterly knocked out.  His mouth was open and his face was slack and all she wanted to do was fix whatever was wrong.  Or solve it.  Or unscramble it.  She didn't know what she wanted to do, but inaction was getting her nowhere.

She hadn’t been able to wrap her mind around anything that had just happened, other than the image of Logan, his knees buckling and his eyes still so glazed over, barely able to support his own weight as she’d held him. Hollow.  Like he’d seen a ghost.  He’d staggered into her waiting arms and he’d stayed there, and all she knew was she needed to find a way to make it easier on him, somehow.

With Bea nestling into a tentative sleep without much effort on her mother's part, Rory settled the baby back into her crib and considered her options.  She could sleep on the spare bed in the nursery to allow Logan his space; he was exhausted and didn't need her in there with her cold feet and her snuffling noises and if the baby woke up again, Logan would too.  But if she slept in the nursery, she wouldn't be there if he woke up disoriented and needing to feel something familiar and solid when he reached across their normally shared space.  It really wasn't all that hard of a decision to make, and she gave Bea a kiss on the head as she slowly backed out of the room and closed the door with a quiet _snick_.

Back in their bedroom, Logan had unconsciously moved more fully to what had become his side of the bed, the width of his back a wall with only the potential to separate them.  Before Rory’s pregnancy, they’d both been back-sleepers, like twin sarcophagi in their marital tomb, and then she’d read that sleeping on the left side increased blood flow to the fetus, and she’d made the switch, a pillow stationed between her knees. Somewhat inexplicably, Logan had a way of insisting on formational sleeping symmetry; so if Rory was on her side, he’d be big spooning her on the slow ride into slumber, no more King Tut for him.  She liked to think that it was his way of demonstrating that he was capable of evolving along with her, of always making room.  The sleeping position had stuck even after Rory was free to roll around back to front and back again if she chose, with only her own singular circulation and blood flow to account for, and she and Logan still had the habit of tucking into each other at night, fused together like anglerfish. 

Rory knelt on the bed, careful not wake him, and reached for the cellphone that she’d left on the bedside table, sliding back into the hallway and out of earshot.

Paris picked up on the second ring.

“Something’s wrong,” Rory said, her voice cracking without her consent as she tiptoed into a darkened guest room and settled on the floor next to a dusty night table. She took a deep breath as she swallowed around the tears caught in her throat and exhaled slowly through her mouth.

Paris was already on guard. “Is it the baby? I keep five top rated pediatricians on speed dial and I can have one at your house in less than fifteen minutes, you just say the word.”

Of course she did. She wouldn’t be Paris if she didn’t. “No, no, Bea is fine.  It’s...Logan.”

“That blonde haired Patrick Bateman, I never trusted—” Paris growled.

“No, Paris.  Not...he hasn’t...wait, what are you, no. You know, you’re always assuming the worst of him.” Rory scolded.

“I think you know that attribute isn’t exclusive to your baby daddy.” Rory could hear her friend rearranging something in the background, some rumpling and ruffling and the creak of a cabinet door.

“Hey, can you also stop calling him my baby daddy?  We’re engaged.  We’ve been engaged. Everything is entirely above board here.  And even if we weren’t planning on getting married, don’t pigeonhole us into some archaic notion of what a proper relationship should be, this isn’t 1952. ”

She could hear the eye roll over the phone.  “Fine. No more name calling, no more assuming the worst.  Did you call here to issue any other edicts or is Kim Jung Un dropping by later to finish the job?”

Rory loved how protective Paris was of her, of Bea, that she always had someone in her corner that was willing to tear someone else limb from limb for her if she needed.  She never wanted to need it, but the thought was there and it provided an odd comfort. “Logan had...he had an incident at the airport today and I don’t know if it’s physical or if it’s emotional or if it’s a combination, but I’m scared.”

“Like the Air Marshals escorted him off the plane kind of incident?”

“He never even made it on the plane.”

“Weapons in his carry-on? Help me out here. Rogue TSA agent? Not enough of those tiny bottles of booze on the cart?”

“I think...I think it was a panic attack.”

Paris gave a low whistle. “But he’s home now? Hydrating? It’s very important that he hydrate, Rory.  Eight years of medical school and if I learned anything, it was the importance of two parts hydrogen one part oxygen. Don’t underestimate its simplicity.”

“He’ll hydrate.” Rory picked at a piece of carpet that had been faded by sunlight and made a mental note to pull the blinds as she left the room.  “I just don’t know what else to do.”  Her voice caught, but didn’t break, and she could sense Paris launching into savior mode from the other end of the line.  This was where her friend shined, when she felt like she could swoop in and provide rescue. Even if it meant helping Logan, a person in Rory’s life that Paris still hadn’t entirely warmed to, although she’d long since stopped pantomiming methods of torture that she planned to inflict on him if anything went remotely off kilter in terms of the relationship.

Paris was steady, cool. “It’ll be fine, Gilmore, there’s plenty of good stuff on the market that works for anxiety and depression.”

“Good stuff?”

“Happy pills? SSRIs? Benzos? Jesus, didn't anyone in that hick town of yours ever need an antidepressant? Oh Jesus, they probably just poured them in the water like fluoride.  Explains all those festivals you were people were always having.”  There was that old Geller patience. 

“I don’t think— he doesn’t need—“

“Hey, it’s okay.  He doesn’t have to go the pharmacological route if he doesn’t want to.  I can get you some recommendations of some colleagues that specialize in grief counseling.  He needs to find someone to talk to who isn’t you or anyone who wears a gorilla mask as a hobby.  I know he won’t want to, I can already hear the refusals from here. We both know that he already thinks all that hyper masculine bravado he possesses is just gonna rise up and beat this into submission, but his parents died. He’s a new dad. He’s lost and he needs a flashlight.”

“But I’m supposed to be his flashlight.” Rory said in a small voice.

“This song isn’t about you, Warren Beatty.” Paris huffed.  “I would have thought all that time you spent back in high school with that kicked puppy, Johnny, you would have learned that you can’t fix them, if they don’t want to be fixed.  They have to want to fix themselves.”

It took Rory a few minutes to register what Paris was actually referring to.  “Hold on. Are you talking about Jess?”

“Am I?  I don’t know, there were so many projects and I can’t possibly remember the name of every guy who ever lined up to worship at the sanctified altar of Rory Gilmore--”

“There were no lines.”  Rory protested.

“Okay, so which one was the swarthy little one with the lisp?”

“Paris, god.” This time Rory really did roll her eyes. “His name is Jess.”

“Point being,” Paris said with a stern edge, as if she had any other default setting, “Logan has to decide it for himself.  No amount of guilt or cajoling or needling or giving him the Sailor Moon anime eyes of Rory Gilmore is going to goad him into something like therapy.  You’re going to have to pull out the big guns.”

“Paris, you know how I feel about the Second Amendment.”

“Don’t be glib, Gilmore.  There’s one thing that he wants that only you can give him. Presumably.”

“Stop talking in code.” Then it hit her. “You—you’re not talking about some kind of sexual blackmail, are you?”  

“I wouldn’t dare.”  

“C’mon, even you have to admit that’s gross.”

“He’s love of your life and the father of your child, Rory, you shouldn’t find him gross.  Anyway, consider it scientific inquiry.”

She hung up with Paris and slipped down the stairs, not sure her purpose or her intent. For a few minutes, Rory stood in the dark, quiet kitchen contemplating the merits of a pot of coffee, but it was halfway between way past her bedtime and way too early in the morning to excuse making one.  She opened and closed the fridge a few times, collected some cheese and crackers in case Logan woke up and wanted a snack, and assembled them on a tray that also included a bowl of almonds, two bottled waters and a Toblerone she found in the farthest reaches of one of the cabinets, in case Logan awoke from his nap with the expectation of having an entire hotel minibar at his disposal.  She carefully climbed the steps while balancing the tray and set it on the floor outside the bedroom door while she ducked into the bathroom.

Rory stared at her own reflection, the face still a little swollen and sticky, and found herself wetting washcloths with cool water as if Logan had a fever that she intended to help him break. She could fully acknowledge the manic thread in her current behavior because what the hell was she supposed to be doing right now?  What was even happening?  The whole day had felt like a fever dream to her and she wasn’t the one who’d...whatever that had been.  Rory liked answers, she appreciated facts, tangible knowledge with proof and conclusions.  And right now, she had nothing but a tray full of snack food and a gut full of dread.

It made her head and heart ache with the thought that neither of them knew what to do about what had just happened, other than she knew she needed to take care of him.  This was just like when Logan had come down with the flu right after Bea was born, or when he’d had the base jumping accident in Costa Rica, or when he’d called her after his parents’ plane crash.  She’d benefited plenty from years of the reverse; this time it was her turn to be strong.

She piled the wet cloths on her already heaping tray and dragged it into the corner of the bedroom to await its master’s whims.  With whatever strength she could muster, she crawled into the king sized bed where Logan had been slumbering, or really passed out, by himself for the last however many hours.  She wasn’t sure if it was the added weight on the bed or the creaking of the old wood flooring under her tentative feet, but even in sleep, Logan held out his arms in a wordless, automatic gesture and Rory found herself clambering into the space he held open for her, the one closest to his heart.  

Up close, she could study him in the dark, his sleeping face slack enough that his jaw dropped open and each steady, rhythmic breath whistled through his teeth.  She’d spent so many years staring at this face, knowing was written behind his eyes, his smile, his heart.  And now, maybe she really didn’t. 

It was hard to stop picturing how pale sick and dazed he’d appeared as he’d returned from his aborted trip; how it didn’t even seem characteristic or possible that he wasn’t cracking a joke or deflecting her worry as he normally did.   _Hey there, it’s a husk of a man reporting from the Hartford International Airport, and let me tell you, the skies are not feeling friendly today._

His thick eyelashes fanned against his cheeks as he slept on, oblivious to her musings, and Rory nuzzled at his eyelids as a combination of apprehension and complete adoration cycled through her chest.  Logan muttered something unintelligible in his sleep, turning his face more fully toward her and moonlight spilled onto his cheekbone, illuminating his youth and his vulnerability. 

“Shh, it’s alright,”  she whispered, stroking at his hair and kissing his temple.   She’d been looking into those same brown eyes for years-sparkling, mischievous, always just this side of serious-and the worn out haunted look was certainly new. New and frightening.

Rory curled in as close as she could, counting Logan’s breaths and syncing hers with his until she too was lulled into sleep.

Somewhere in the predawn hours, Logan startled awake, taking a gasping breath and shaking the stillness of their shared space.  Rory watched him carefully as he surveyed his current situation through bleary, exhausted eyes.  He sat up, found that his suit coat was rucked up and cutting into his shoulders; his belt twisted so that the buckle was visibly digging into his side.  Rory vaguely patted at his chest, smoothing at his jacket, stroking his cheek with her fingers.  His skin was clammy under her touch, a little warm, maybe too warm; perhaps it was just the start of a flu or a virus. Something that would run its course and lead them back to the status quo in the course of a few days, or a week.  He blinked a few times, eyes going from alert to blank to vaguely unsettled in milliseconds.  Rory traced the length of his arm with her fingertips, concluding where Logan’s fingers were still clenching the bedclothes, and when he released them, she noticed the crescent shaped divots where his fingernails had dug in as he’d slept. Voluntarily or involuntarily he shivered, and Rory moved closer in attempt to provide warmth.

His hair was fuzzy and there were creases on his cheek from the pillowcase, and seeing him all vulnerable and sleep-addled did wonders for the sick feeling in her belly.  Rory traced one of the more prominent creases on his cheekbone with the tip of her finger and Logan made a soft, low sound in the back of his throat. It took a few minutes, maybe he’d been working quietly on convincing his brain to do a hard restart - one where the events of the previous afternoon could filter unbidden through his consciousness and then ended with him being overwhelmed enough that both his mind and body had just switched off, full stop. “Huh,” he said out loud, clearly not meaning to speak that sentiment aloud.

Rory’s hand was flat on his chest, palm to sternum, like she was keeping him there because she fully expected him to run. They both watched her hand as it rose and fell with his breaths.  Rory, who had managed to shake herself out of her semi meditative trance,  popped up on an elbow, still a little lightheaded and eyed him with a careful concern.  “Are you feeling okay?  You were out like a light when I came in with the baby, so I just let you sleep.”

“I don’t--” He flashed her a wobbly smile and in the dark reached out to grasp her hand.  Rory watched as whatever open, exposed expression Logan’s face and eyes had been holding fell away, pulling back and sealing themselves behind that wall he’d hidden behind so early on.  The wall that Mitchum and Shira had built.  The one that closed people out and kept them at arms’ length and scrambled to keep Logan from feeling anything that wasn’t _fun_.

It was just too jagged a thought to hold--the idea that she was losing some part of Logan just in an afternoon--so she dismissed it, swept it away, and closed it behind its own door where she wouldn’t need to confront it just yet.

Rory leaned over and dropped what she hoped was a soothing kiss on his cheekbone, his cheeks rough with fresh stubble. She smoothed the hair off his forehead, finding that she didn’t have the strength to say much more than “It’s okay.  You’re home now. Get some rest,” until she saw something click behind Logan’s eyes, like he’d heard the reservation in her voice. “I left you some bottled water on your night table.  You need...you need to rehydrate, okay?  Drink one before you go back to sleep.  Please.”

“So I take it that my earlier stance of “I’m totally fine, what are you talking about,” has completely flown out the window, huh?”

“We can talk about it in the morning,” she said into his shoulder, stroking the back of his neck.

Obedient, Logan struggled into a sit as he located the two sweating bottles of water that Rory had left for him on the nightstand.  He gulped them down in rapid succession, then sniffed at the air.  “Is that me?  I smell like a barn.” 

“I think you smell fine.”  That was a blatant lie, but Logan was warm and close, so instead, she rolled over and buried her face into the crook of Logan’s neck, her arm casually pinning him in place.

“Thank you.”  

They laid in silence for a few minutes until Rory gradually rose up onto her knees, looming over Logan in the dark grey light of the room.  Gently, she pulled him to a sit and plucked at the wrist of his jacket, tugging so that he’d draw his arm back so she could remove it.  She then worked to unbuckle his belt and slid it from the confines of his belt loops, winding it into a neat circle and placing it on the bedside table.  “Is that better?” Rory asked, her hair curtaining the space between their faces.

Logan nodded, face subdued and he held Rory’s concerned gaze for long enough that it started to feel like it might be.  “It’s better.”

She leaned over to kiss him then, slow and thorough, and a little like she wanted to press her strength into his skin through her lips.  Rubbing the pad of her thumb over his cheekbone, she hoped that the motion itself felt as loaded as one of the love notes that Logan used to used to tuck into her messenger bag before she’d go to class, _I love you, you got this, you’re so beautiful,_ and now she hoped that it felt like she was writing them all back to him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find the Catcher in the Rye reference and then tell me what a hack I am in the comments!

Rory and Logan had established a morning routine practically the minute they’d started dating.  It was one of the least complicated aspects of their nascent relationship and now, a decade or more later, it was still just as simple and solid as it ever had been.  At sunrise, Logan started coffee, located a paper, then kissed Rory awake if she hadn’t been roused by the heady scent of aromatic blends or the extremely noisy French press Logan had been using lately.  

This morning wasn’t different. 

Sure, Logan had woken at the crack of dawn to a fussing six month old and true, he’d felt as if a horse had taken up residence on his ribcage, but once he’d extracted himself from the grasp of both sets of Rory’s arms and legs, he’d managed to pull himself down the stairs to resume the rhythm they’d established years before.  Except today, when Rory sipped idly from her coffee mug and pored over Logan like he was one of her college textbooks, she was examining him a bit more minutely, even as he spooned oatmeal into his mouth and drank his own coffee.  He half expected her to pull out a highlighter and index cards to start cataloging her findings, and he could practically hear her thinking, _don’t ask don’t ask don’t ask_ as she shifted positions in her chair.  

Clearly, Rory was attempting to walk that razor thin line between concerned and clingy; protective and nurturing.  But from the haggard silence still hanging in the room, it seemed like the efforts may have been failing and where they’d landed was deeper into pity than either of them was comfortable admitting. And anyway, all that over-examination was beginning to dig under Logan’s skin and make him itch. “What can I help you with, Jane Goodall? My coat covered in those pesky jungle nits again?”

Rory’s mouth opened and closed while she recalibrated and searched for words she thought he’d like to hear.  It was nice of her to try to make him happy by leaving things alone for at least a small portion of the morning. Her eyes flicked up and down his torso and Logan wondered if maybe she was scanning his body for proof that he wasn’t going to put a Logan-shaped hole in the door if she even so much as broached a serious subject. Granted, after the events of the previous day, Logan couldn’t imagine even slowly walking up and down the stairs more than necessary, but she didn’t need to know that. Yet.

After some deep thought and another generous glug of caffeine, Rory seemed to settle into whatever was happening in her head, so she leaned forward, gently set her mug down on the table and fixed a serious gaze on him. “I think you should consider talking to someone.”

Ah, there it was.  The suggestion that he’d been dreading since he came back to himself in the airport bathroom.  And it wasn’t like he was a stranger to the concept.  You don’t get expelled from 12 boarding schools without administrators waving words like _mandatory counseling_ over your head like a white flag.  Except this time, his surrender wasn’t going to be coerced.  At least he hoped not.  “Is this whole thing in my head again? Or are you no longer considered someone, Ace?”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Well, you’re scaring me.  Remember when I got robbed in New York City and I told the mugger a knock, knock joke as he was counting the cash in my wallet?  It wasn’t one of my finest moments, sure, and the joke was pedestrian at best, but hell, that’s what terror does to me.”

“That was a very impressive shiner he gave you.”

“And I sometimes I can still feel how that split lip stung when I kissed you, which was unfortunate on levels both aesthetic and pragmatic.”  Logan made the faux pouty face that he was fairly sure Rory still thought was irresistible even all these years later, and from the gleam in her eye, he was right.  “I’m sorry, but what were we talking about again?  ‘Cause all I can think about now is kissing you,” he growled, and slid out of his chair and into the space beneath Rory’s kitchen chair.  She was dressed in one of his older, more worn out Andover t-shirts and it was stretched out from use and washing that it easily covered her thighs. Even as Rory sat primly, he could still glimpse the lavender floral pattern of her underwear, and he stroked a finger up the side of Rory’s leg, nodding as if for permission.  Her skin was soft under his fingertips as he travelled further up, and he could hear her breath quicken. He had forgotten how soft, yet how truly solid she was.

“Bea’s down for her morning nap,” Rory said very matter of factly, and he realized that sentence was intended as his signal.  Logan didn’t need any alert buttons or whooping alarms to tell him that he had to take his opportunities wherever and however they cropped up these days.  “We could--”

She hadn't finished her sentence before he had her by the hand and halfway up the stairs, the tail of Rory’s robe dragging haphazardly behind them.  His entire being hummed with anticipatory desire as sleep clothes were shucked in a breadcrumb trail to the bedroom, a frantic edge to every movement.  

Logan stumbled over his own two feet as Rory’s knuckles skimmed the sensitive skin beneath his navel in her haste to ruck his T-shirt up over his head and they clumsily and unceremoniously fell back into their unmade bed, mouths and tongues and hands everywhere they could reach.  The kisses felt competitive, like each of them was trying to win a race that neither of them had consciously entered, but were participating in all the same.  It was tug and push and nip and pull and neither one of them could seem to get close enough.  Inside. 

Rory's elbow bumped against the nightstand and Logan found himself tangled somehow in a discarded baby blanket, but all he could think about and feel was Rory. Rory’s skin, the freckles that dotted her shoulders in tiny, bright constellations, the narrow silvery lines near her navel where her skin had been stretched as she had provided safe housing for their child.  It took a second to register what he _wasn’t_ feeling--numbness, existential dread, abject horror.  It was just Rory, all lit up under his skin and pumping through his blood as easily as oxygen.  Despite the frenetic pace and the need for _more, more, more_ Logan found himself strangely rooted in the moment; even Rory’s lightest touch was enough to bring him fully into the reality that just yesterday he hadn’t been able to reach.

Her mouth was warm and caffeinated as Logan returned Rory’s hungry kisses with something that was rougher and deeper, but still as sweet as the raw sugar she’d spooned into her cup.  If he couldn’t find words to tell her, then he would show her how he felt, so tired of how everything was so hemmed in and pushed down and all he wanted to do was release it, get it out.

Rory pinned him beneath her hips with a willful intent, which he had to admit was one of the more comfortable means of confinement, and a sound that he didn’t realize that he was capable of producing breached his lips as she created friction against his groin with her slight but well-directed movements.  

“We can’t wait this long next time,” Logan breathed into her neck, which quickly became the top of Rory’s head as she worked her way down his body, dropping worshipful kisses as she went.

The soft strands of her auburn hair dragged against his neck as she trailed careful kisses across his chest, up to his shoulder, and then to his neck and his unshaven jaw.  He shivered when she arrived back at the sensitive place right below his ear that she knew drove him right to the edge, and she lingered there, deliberate in her movements.

Logan skimmed his hands up Rory’s bare back, then with his lips attempted to catch her mouth, instead barely grazing her jawbone.  “Is this our first nooner since we’ve been parents?”

Rory stilled momentarily, her eyes lit up as if they each held fires burning brightly behind them, and it served Logan with a momentary jolt of pride at the fact that he had managed to affect her that way.  “It’s more like a niner, but hey, you do you.”

“I’d really rather not.”  Realizing that he possessed the superior upper body strength, then, Logan managed to both wriggle out from under her and gain control of the situation.  He traced a line over the gentle slope of Rory’s hipbone with his tongue, and she writhed beneath his feather-light touches.  “Not so bold when the shoe is on the other foot, I see,” he mumbled into her buttery soft skin and Rory made a pleased little sound somewhere above his head.  

Intellectually, Logan knew that they need to hurry because their daughter was an adorable though ticking time bomb programmed to interrupt all activities paramount to relationship building--sleep, nutrition, communication, sex--within ninety seconds of initiation, but he wanted to savor this time with Rory.  

He wanted to be able to dwell on the plane of her ribcage, and on the contours of her breasts, to not have to miss those beautiful breathy noises she made when he teased and tasted.  He eased his way down between her legs, and she tightened them then around his shoulders, and god bless everyone, but Logan wasn’t required to hurry through a damn thing.

Both thoroughly sated and in a semi-delirious state of blissed out drowsiness, Logan brushed his fingertips down Rory’s bare torso, and rested his head on her shoulder, reveling in the pure indulgence of being this close, this full of Rory.  “Hmm, niners should totally be a thing. I move to implement them within our daily routine.  All in favor?”

“Aye,” Rory sighed, content.

“Motion carries.”  Logan said, and slapped his palm like a gavel against his exposed thigh.  “Mmm, Ace.  I missed you.  I missed that.  God, have I missed that.” 

“Me too.”  She clutched at the back of his neck, stroking the fine hair there, and nothing seemed nearly as pressing as Logan found himself going slack and pliant under her light touches, his mind finally pleasantly blank. He was still trying to get his bearings— _ceiling, floor, bed, fuuucckkkk, I love this_ —when Rory said, “I still think you might need to consider seeing a therapist, Logan,” her fingers still hovering softly at his nape.

Damnit. “Ugh."  He swallowed. "I don’t know if I’m comfortable really digging into the magma of my repression with just anyone, Rory.”  He could remember the counselors at the different prep schools teaching him to count to 10 and imagine blowing out candles and all kinds of weird touchy feely stuff that supposed to somehow magically make him a clear-thinking and splendid young man.  He could not imagine a scenario in which he’d endure any of that again, but it was Rory asking, and what he would do for both Rory and Bea didn’t seem to have limits anymore.

“Wow.  Repression magma.  That’s…”

“Deep?” He filled in for her.  Rory caught his eye and smiled, and warmth began to build back in his body.  Goosebumps rose along her arms and Logan moved to encompass her a little more completely with his body heat.  Even if he was irritated about the suggestion, he wasn’t going to deny her proximity. It was mutually beneficial.  Her hair tickled his shoulder and against his unshaven jaw.  “You just...you haven’t had a chance to process everything since your parents passed away and then the baby, and now, a panic attack.  It all means something, Logan.”

“It wasn’t a panic attack, Ace, Jesus.”  He held onto the knob of her pelvic bone as he curled toward her on the bed, and tried unsuccessfully to shield himself from the return of that piteous look of concern in Rory’s blue eyes. “Maybe...maybe it was a heart thing.  My dad was on blood thinners for years and I’m probably due for a tune-up.”  He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a cold, but heart disease definitely came with the Huntzberger family crest, along with a prescription for Lipitor and the promise of receding hairline. He knew he didn’t need to tell her that the way Huntzbergers generally handled discomfort was through alcohol, paying it to go away, or well, death.  Certainly, therapy, or even the euphemistic idea of talking it out, was definitely not included. 

“Okay, fine, then.  You had a heart thing, which isn’t any less alarming, you know. If you think it’s your heart, go see your primary care doctor.  Just see someone.”

Before Logan had a chance to capitulate, there was movement downstairs, a sound like the front door opening, and Lorelai’s voice ascended the staircase. “Yoo-hoo!  Anybody home?”

“Since when did Lorelai turn into Gladys Kravitz,” Logan puzzled, the same time Rory said, “Holy shit, it's my mom.”  She jumped up and covered herself with her robe, scandalized. 

“Ace, we have a child together.  How does she think we got her? Mail order?”

“That hardly changes my stance on wanting my mother to witness us, us, uh--” She was clearly searching for the word that didn’t sound like she was writing a Harlequin romance novel, but it was still kind of fun to watch her squirm. Plus she had just lowered the therapy boom on him, so Logan felt completely justified in not swooping to her verbal rescue. “Put on your damn pants, man, this isn’t--a--a---place that you don’t wear pants.”  

“I beg to differ, but you’re under duress.”  Logan swiped his hand around the side of the bed looking for his pair of discarded pajama pants without taking his eyes off Rory.  “She’ll get used to the idea of me, you know.  Eventually.” 

“That’s not---”

He smiled, hopping out of bed and pulling on the sleep pants he’d finally relocated halfway under the bed. His t-shirt was nowhere in his sight line, but he did eye Rory’s favorite nursing bra hanging from the dresser handle haphazardly. “These aren’t camouflage and the stairs aren’t gonna open up and swallow me whole.  And you think I’m having panic attacks?  The idea of your mother and I in the same room for any length of time makes you absolutely twitch with fear.”

“It’s not fear, it’s--”  Rory tightened the belt on her robe like she was gearing up to go another couple of rounds, but Lorelai’s footfalls were already ascending the staircase.  “Self-preservation.”

It was true that Lorelai still looked at Logan like he was a snake oil salesman just waiting to grift Rory and Bea out of their fortunes and misplaced trust, but believe him when he said it had softened over the last little while. Not completely.  But enough. Enough that he felt like he could stop looking for contingencies every time she made a joke at his expense.  But that didn't mean Rory believed fully that it had softened, so it made for awkwardness at times, especially when not everyone was clothed.

“Good morning, Sweets.  Morning, Mr. Hasselhoff, good lookin’ out.”  

Logan eyeballed Rory a blatant ‘I told you so’ as he scrambled to locate his t-shirt, even if it was a good ten years too late to really score him any points for accuracy.  “Good morning, Lorelai,” he greeted his almost mother-in-law, and for the good of everyone, promptly went about making himself scarce.

 

+++

“I don’t want to leave you,”  Rory said into his mouth as she gave Logan her tenth kiss goodbye.

Since Logan was supposed to be halfway around the world, Rory and Lorelai had planned what Sookie been referring to as an “epic weekend of glorious girlhood,” and what had started as Pop-Tarts and Hallmark channel movies on her mom's couch had gradually evolved into some sort of strange infant debutante ball for Rory and Logan’s progeny.

For days, Lorelai had been texting Rory photos of the town square as it had become covered in enormous parade banners, billboards, and posters of tiny, newborn, completely unaware of her notoriety, Bea.  What was odd to all involved was that the pictures of Bea all seemed to have been taken immediately following her birth, when her skin was still mottled and fresh, hair still sticky with fluid, eyes swollen from a trip through the birth canal. No one in the immediate family would cop to providing them to Taylor, or Kirk, or any of the usual suspects, and at a certain point, Rory had had to chalk it up to it just being one of Stars Hollow’s more unsolvable mysteries. Or the shared psychosis of a sleepy New England village.  Maybe it helped that the row of yard signs lining the parkways were more recent photos of Bea, ones that Rory could recall sending to her mother via text, of Bea after a bath and swaddled in new bee-covered blankets, or sweet family ones of Rory and Logan and Bea with their three heads squished into frame, all of their smiles gummy and wide.  Some of the family portraits, though, had been edited with Taylor’s head superimposed over Logan’s (or in some rarer cases, Rory’s) in a lot of spots, and from afar, it all just looked exactly like an event in Stars Hollow looked from the outside: inviting and kind of insane. 

Not as insane as it was going to look up close, but Rory worried that the second she crossed the county line, Bea would be torn from her arms and promptly held aloft in the town square, as Taylor announced Bea’s claim to the town and everything that the light touched.  And judging from the town’s over involvement with Rory’s own growth and development, they’d probably also inevitably unveil a horrifyingly graphic statue depicting Bea's entrance into the world or one that makes her seem like a Baby Stalin, accidentally.

Logan tore Rory from the mental image of her bronzed daughter's umbilical cord cutting becoming the new focal point on Main Street by resting a hand at Rory’s hip.  “You’re going to Stars Hollow, not the moon.  I could be on Greenwich Mean Time right now, which is far worse than a 45 minute drive down the interstate.”

“It’s a very long interstate.  So much blacktop, so many exits.  All those straight white lines.”

Huffing a laugh, Logan leaned in again to kiss her, this one a little longer, more tender.  When he pulled back, he looked her deep in the eye, expression serious. “Rory, I’m fine.”

“Who said you aren’t fine? I don’t see how I ever insinuated you were less than fine? Show me the receipts on that one, and I’ll show you the lie.” She was trying to keep her voice level and light, and even she could admit when she was closer to failing than passing.

“The constant hovering and reluctance to leave a man in his mid-thirties unattended suggests otherwise, Ace.”

Rory paused, searching for the least restrictive way to say that yesterday had been hard on both of them, and okay, so maybe leaving him in this big house to fend for himself felt a lot like abandonment.  “C’mon, Logan, yesterday, it scared me.”

“Scared you? Scared me. But today, today is a new day.” His eyes gave a half sparkle.  Maybe the light would come back into them fully again after all.

“A new day, huh?”

Logan shrugged. “I saw the sun set and rise again, so I think it qualifies, but, hey, I’m no Copernicus.”

“Copernicus had nothing on you, babe.”

“Well, I’ll tally another one for my side.”  He leaned down to kiss her nose and she moved forward, so their foreheads touched.  His voice got just the slightest bit thick as he said, “Go.  In good faith, go.”

“I shouldn’t go.”

He groaned heavily.  “Rory. Go.”

She stepped back toward the door, feeling like there was something else she should be saying, something else she should be doing.  “I’m going.”

“Look at you, going.”

She turned back.  “We’ll be back next week.  We don’t have many groceries, so you may have to send Berta out to grab some things.  We’re running out of toilet--” She stopped herself, because this was hovering, clearly.  “Hey, you’re fine.  I’m going.”

“I’ve got it covered, Ace.” Logan gave a light touch to her elbow and before she knew it, he’d steered her closer to the open door. “Call me, text me, send a carrier pigeon if the reception in Stars Hollow is still crap.  Show Bea my picture every night so she doesn’t forget me,” Logan paused, “But not the one you took of me when I fell asleep on the train in France, that was not my best work.”

“But your mouth is so wide open and with the countryside out the window... That picture has very good composition, Logan.  It could win awards.”

“I look like I’m dreaming that I’m trying to eat Lucerne.  It’s not flattering.”

“But the composition.”  She stood on tiptoe to give him another peck.  “I’ll show her a more flattering picture, I promise.”

“Every night.”

“Every night,” she held up her fingers in the Boy Scout salute.  “And don’t forget that we can FaceTime, you Luddite.”

Logan grabbed at her arm, trailed his fingers lightly down to her wrist.  “When you get back, we’re taking a weekend, just you and me.”

“You spoil me.”

“Nothing but the best for my babies.”  Logan squeezed her hand and pulled her closer, “And if you and your mom find a place that you really like while you’re meeting with the realtor, just put in an offer.”

“I don't even know if we'll have time with all the parades and ice cream socials, and anyway, we were just going out to get ideas, Logan. I’m not going to buy a house without you.”

“You could. I’d sleep with you in a Murphy bed on a railcar that had landed on the moon if I had to.”

“As long as we’re together, Logan, that sounds perfect.”

“Good because I hear the market is tight right now.”

“Very funny.”

His eyes crinkled with a smile.  “Have fun with your mom and Luke.”

“And Grandma.”

“And Emily. And Sookie and Lane and Taylor.” His eyes glazed over a little and he gasped theatrically, “My god, I’ll miss Taylor most of all.”

Rory swatted at him.  “I’m starting to feel better about leaving you behind.”

“As long as you don’t lock me in the attic, we’re totally cool.”

Leaning over on her tiptoes and holding Logan’s face in place, Rory dropped kisses on his nose, his eyelid, his cheekbone, his chin. “I love you.  Get some rest.”

He blinked slowly, and she tried not to think about the panic in his voice or the hollowness or how today he was just trying to pretend that everything was the same as it ever had been because it was somehow easier. Gradually, the corner of his lip twitched upward and he gave her his best imitation of the million watt smile that usually turned her to liquid and made her forget her own name.  “I’m good, Ace.  Go.” 

So she went.  

And it still felt a whole lot like abandonment.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan goes to Stars Hollow and then to therapy.

It was strange how quickly a sprawling home with six bathrooms and a pool house could feel claustrophobic.  

Logan would never have classified himself as a still person, since it had always been within his nature to pace and fidget and jiggle a knee when and if he needed to, and that kinetic energy was usually enough to soothe most ills.   But tonight, with the niggling feeling that every single wall was hell-bent on closing in on him and his stupid thoughts racing like they were on the track at Pimlico, Logan figured that the best way to fight the restlessness was to steadfastly refuse to rest.

It was pretty ridiculous how he didn’t seem to know what to do with the tiniest bit of freedom once he had it, and it wasn’t like spending time with Rory and Bea was some leg iron he was dragging behind him.  In a way, the time they spent as a family gave him _more_ freedom, because sometimes he felt like the only time he was truly himself was when he was in a room with either of the women he loved the most in the world.

Maybe it was because Bea didn’t need pretenses or appearances or any sort of affectation to smile at him like he’d just hung the sun and ordered the stars to shine.  And truthfully, neither did Rory.  If Logan ever decided to show Bea the operating statements of Huntzberger Publishing Corporation, she would blink back at him, completely unimpressed.  But if he whinnied like her toy horse and bopped with her up and down in the middle of the living room, she’d giggle and preen and show him every inch of her gummy smile.  Hell, with Bea, sometimes he just had to physically appear in front of her crib or bouncy seat and she’d practically fling herself at him in celebration.  Zero board members had ever flung themselves anywhere when Logan walked into a room, and maybe that was why it always seemed easier with Rory and Bea.

 _Yeah, this is totally normal_ , Logan thought seconds after found himself almost crying with relief when the phone rang with a wrong number. Stuffing his wallet into his back pocket, he grabbed his keys with the intention of heading anywhere that contained people, noise, and something that could knock him into temporary unconsciousness.

+++

Logan had left the house with the intention of driving downtown or into one of the New Haven suburbs to find a pub or bar where college students and doo wop groups weren’t the only patrons, but somewhere along the interstate, he’d realized that he wasn’t really heading to either of those destinations.

Dressed in her pajamas, Rory answered the door to her mother’s house with a drowsy Bea in her arms, Luke and Lorelai sprawled out wearily on the couch behind her.  Mugs of hot chocolate sat on the coffee table and the whole house emitted the scent of gingerbread, cinnamon, and spun sugar.  Everything about the scene was warm and inviting and hell if there wasn’t the smallest part of Logan that felt like he was intruding.  Rory stared at him for a few seconds, then silently backed out of the doorway to allow him to pass, but not before Logan caught her in his arms and held her there. “Hi.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Logan interrupted, his voice not quite as strong as he thought it would have been.  

They stood there for a few seconds longer, until Rory gave Logan’s back a little pat and moved aside so that he could kiss Bea's forehead and enter, bagless and completely unannounced.  “You’re just in time. We’re decompressing after the whole Bea coronation slash worship session.  And I can’t be entirely sure that she wasn’t canonized simultaneously.  It was a real whirlwind out there.”

“Oh, Taylor definitely filed paperwork, kid.  You bet your sweet bippy that Pope Frank is asking some confused Cardinal right now how Taylor Doose got his home number.”  To Logan, Lorelai said, “You sure missed a hell of a surreal Lion King moment in the square earlier, Dad.”  Lorelai stood up from her place on the sofa, clearing mugs and disappearing into the kitchen behind Luke.  “Kirk dressed as Rafiki.”  When she noticed Logan’s raised eyebrow, “Yes, the very regal and wise monkey.  I would say that Kirk possesses neither of those traits, although his evolution from the apes is probably a three quarter turn less than the rest of us--It, it was just...I can’t find the words to describe it accurately, other than….”

“Disturbing.” Luke piped in.  “Deranged.” A dish clattered in the sink. “Psychotic.”

Lorelai considered for a moment, “No, those about cover it.”

“Geez, Ace, you called it.” Logan stood awkwardly in the foyer, not sure if he should take off his jacket and shoes or if he should turn around, get back in his car, and pretend that he hadn’t just spontaneously driven fifty miles under the terror of loneliness.  “I trust that there is photographic evidence of this.”

“No need!” Luke yelled over the sound of the faucet as he refilled the coffee maker. “I’ll be seeing it in my nightmares for years to come!”

“Despite what you may think, dear, they aren’t projecting your psyche in the town square anymore.”  Lorelai reappeared, holding a plate of cheese and crackers and a beer, which she offered to Logan without comment.  “It was all a bit much.  Even for Stars Hollow standards.  I’ve never seen so many small children cower in fear at one time, and that’s even after the unfortunate Santa the Clown heart attack incident of 2012.”

“A dark time for all of us, indeed.” Rory said reverently.  

Taking the beer, Logan figured that no one seemed to be overly surprised or judgmental about his sudden appearance so he settled next to Rory on the sofa where she’d dropped after depositing a sleeping Bea in her portable crib upstairs. “Seriously, I have never seen your child so terrified.  I’ve already made Kirk and Taylor promise that they’d go halfsies on her future therapy bills, and I’ve already cancelled the zoo membership because I’m positive that it could be triggering.” 

“What about my therapy bills?” Luke asked, slugging back his own beer and plopping down onto the loveseat.  “What about the images that have been burned onto _my_ retinas?”

“I could even hear Miss Patty dry heaving a little.”  

Lorelai leaned over and stage-whispered conspiratorially, “His tights left very little to the imagination.”

“It really added insult to injury, frankly.” Luke crossed his arms in a huff, clearly angry that he was once again being required to conjure up the mental picture or even discuss it.

“There’s plenty of salt in our mental wounds thanks to those tights.”  

“We may have a class action lawsuit on our hands.”  Rory patted Logan’s knee.  “Now I know how Bea’s going to college.  And medical school.”

Everyone commiserated for a few minutes longer, until Lorelai rubbed at her eyes and started pulling Luke by the shirttail toward the stairs.  “We’re hitting the hay, and don’t you worry about our girl.  Grandpa Luke and I have her covered.”

Rory and Logan worked silently to clear away the remnants of the late evening snack and within less than half an hour, found themselves stuffed knee to knee into a bed clearly not made for two grown adults.  “This mattress is made of cornhusks,” Logan grumbled, twisting and maneuvering until he felt more securely ensconced, which was impossible considering how his feet dangled off the edge and constricted his circulation.

Ignoring his grumpy outburst and gracefully dodging an errant elbow, Rory stroked at Logan’s arm. "Hi." She said, gently.

Logan felt his heart rate reduce by half. "Hi." 

“I’m glad you came.”

“Glad I’m here.”  Logan said as Rory shifted positions so that she could purr languidly into his neck.  Since the baby was sleeping in Luke and Lorelai’s room, it felt odd not to have the white noise of the baby monitor humming in their ears.  “I should have just come with you in the first place.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, long enough that Logan wondered if Rory had fallen asleep, and so he startled when out of the silence, Rory asked, “Is there something I can do?”

“No, I just--” Logan frowned into the dark, wondering for a few seconds if she was talking about the bed situation or something larger.  “I just wanted to be close to you.”

Rory’s arms tightened around his rib cage, squeezed.  “Close enough?”

“Closer.”  The hold tightened like a vice.  “Close enough.”  Logan squeaked. Driving here was what he needed, he knew that.  He just didn’t understand why he still didn’t feel all that much better.

“Hey, Logan?”

“Ace?”

“Is it my fault?  Is it something I did?  Or maybe didn’t do?”

That hit him harder than she’d intended, because from the sound of her voice, it was an honest question and not any kind of accusation.  And the last thing he ever wanted was for Rory to think that she had somehow contributed to his recent zombification.  He shook his head, burrowing close enough to smell Rory’s soap, the lavender one with the vanilla.  “God no.” 

“So,” there was hesitation in her voice, and he braced himself for what would come next, “Paris sent me her recommendations for, uh, therapists and counselors, and I think, maybe--”

His stomach was cocktail of emotions, shaken and sour and not quite well mixed.  “I’ll call on Monday.” He was too tired to deny it anymore, because it was abundantly clear to everyone else that he was unmoored and drifting.  Honor knew it, the stockholders knew it, Luke and Lorelai knew it, hell, Babette even knew it judging from the piteous look she’d given him from her porch when he’d pulled into the driveway.  Bea probably felt it, the way his doubts and insecurities emanated from his skin and filled up any empty spaces. 

Rory nudged closer, her head pillowed on Logan’s chest.  “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, or you don’t think it would be helpful.  I mean, this isn’t an ultimatum.” 

“I didn’t think that it was.” Logan shifted a little so that he could meet Rory’s eyes when he tilted his head. He was met with depths of concern and it made his stomach sink even further.  “It doesn’t need to be.” 

“Just so you know that there’s no gun to your head.” She arched her back so she could kiss the bottom of his chin, plant another on the hinge of his jaw.  “I just, I really like you and I want you to feel--” There are plenty of ways to end that sentence that could make Logan feel about three inches tall, and it was clear Rory trailed off in search of the alternative. “Like we’re in this together.  Like you’re not alone.” 

The band around Logan’s chest tightened that much further, “Hey, I know you’ve got my back.  Why else would I sleep with you in this awful contraption?”

“You really are like the princess and the pea, you know.”

In spite of whatever nonsense was occuring in his head, a smile pulled at Logan’s lips.  “I cannot lower my standards for mattresses.  The consequences are far too great.”

“I’ll give you great consequences,” Rory faux-threatened, looming up into his face as if she was about to hurt him, but instead dropping a kiss on the end of his nose.  “That’s just a taste.” She gave an intense yawn and dropped back onto her side, boneless.  “But I’m too sleepy to spell out the whole consequence menu right now, so raincheck.”  

Come to think of it, Logan was exhausted too, thanks to a brain that had been hitting escape for what seemed like months.  But before they fully retired, Logan rolled so that despite any discomfort, he was finally spooning his fiancé, pressed together from shoulders to feet. Leaning forward, he whispered into her ear, “Just so you know, I really like you, too.”

The transition to sleep wasn’t gradual; it was more of a free fall or a plummet, but when Logan woke, his arms and legs were wound around Rory like a melancholy koala bear and in the soft morning light, everything felt just a little more settled.

+++

As promised, the mandatory trip to his primary care doctor yielded no fruit, other than to serve Logan with a clean bill of health and secure him in the knowledge that his issues were not related to anything remotely physical.  With heart and lungs and blood all in working order, Logan was forced to have to concentrate on his head.

He’d already caught Rory’s browser history, full of searches about _grief_ and _bereavement_ and _insomnia_ and _panic disorders_ and he guessed he was glad she didn’t suspect anything any more ominous.  He had had to fight the urge not to leave a post-it note on her laptop that said, “Hey! At least it’s not cancer!”

Okay, so maybe the insomnia was bad but the crushing feeling of failure was worse, and Logan didn’t know how the hell to classify any of it.  Objectively, he knew his situation wasn’t fatal.  He wasn’t going to die if he didn’t address whatever was happening in his head, but he wasn’t going to really live, either.  It was uncomfortable either direction, and he had a choice to make.  Only it wasn’t really a choice at all.

The therapist’s outer office was decorated in warm tones, walls lined with portraits of bucolic landscapes and gently rolling hills.  The sheer glaring beigeness of everything grated on him, which he could almost guarantee was not the intended result of all that muted fabric. And maybe while he completed paperwork and pretended to read a magazine, someone else was behind the scenes hiding all the sharp implements and deciding if he shouldn’t be committed.

It didn’t help that Paris had recommended the therapist; the fact that Paris knew anything at all about what was or wasn’t happening with him was immeasurably unpleasant all on its own. Sutton Berry seemed benign enough, though, without those Paris Geller sharp edges, with golden brown hair she pushed behind her ears and rectangular frames in her tortoiseshell glasses.

“So what brings you here today, Logan?”  Dr. Berry held a notepad on her knee, but her pen wasn’t poised anywhere near the paper, and she fixed such a kind gaze on him that Logan felt temporarily inclined to lay a thousand reasons why he could benefit from therapy at her feet. If he could manage to find the words, and also forget that someone that he had never met was about to listen to them.  

A trick.  This was all a trick.  One false move and the guys with the white coats would tumble out of the Thomas Kinkaid. “I, uh,” he shook his head slightly, as if he could jar loose 35 odd years of Protestant repression and all the myriad reasons for his subsequent acting out within the first thirty seconds of meeting a person who also happened to be a licensed psychotherapist.

When was life ever that easy, Logan thought, but plowed ahead anyway.  At least he knew the last thing or two that had gotten him here.

“I’m not sleeping very well.” Logan tapped his toe against the coffee table that sat in front of the armchair he’d settled in.  When Sutton didn’t immediately press for more details, he decided he needed to fill the space with something that wasn’t silence.  “We have a baby in our house--I mean, she belongs to us, it’s not like we’ve had a recent baby infestation or anything,” Oh, great, so this nervous gibbering thing that he hadn’t properly demonstrated since he was a teenager was picking now to rear its babbling awkward head.  Perfect first impression. “Yeah, so with babies, or at least our baby, not sleeping is par for the course, I get that. But I’m not...it’s just not happening whether the baby is awake or asleep or busy calling her bookie.”  The therapist gave a soft smile. “She’s not...she doesn’t have a gambling problem.  Yet.  I mean, give her time.”

Continued silence.  

Logan’s heart was beating a rapid enough timbre to power the blood flow of more than one human and he momentarily worried that it might just burst out of his chest. Why wasn’t this lady stepping in to help him not sound like an idiot?  Wasn’t that part of her job?  “Our daughter...well, our daughter is almost seven months old now, so maybe it’s more indirectly her, but my girlfriend, she thought....”  The pen still didn’t move, and neither did the therapist’s benign expression.  “I think had a panic attack a few weeks ago.”

Ahh, he’d said the words out loud and no one turned to stone.  

And truthfully, just producing the syllables immediately tempered his nerves, as he felt his heart rate slowly return to something less likely to require defibrillation. Not only that, he was legitimately surprised how easily he could both locate and verbalize language when it seemed like the only activity happening in his temporal lobe was the clanging of alarm bells and a robotic loudspeaker voice that sounded strangely like Mitchum Huntzberger saying _abort abort abort._

“Do you mind if I ask what was going on around the time you had a panic attack?” _Ah, finally. A reprieve._

Inwardly, Logan very much minded, since disclosing Huntzberger personal business to strangers was somewhere near treason on the WASP Scale of Punishable Personal Offenses, and deep down he felt as if he’d be betraying generations of thin-lipped Type A personalities.  Didn’t matter though, because he was already here, and he supposed that the only way out was through.  Plus the silences felt more excruciating than what he seemed to be filling them with.  “I was supposed to be leaving. On a jet plane.  But I, uh, knew when I’d be back again.” Logan could acknowledge that his predicament was superseding his A plus comedy material but Jesus, this woman could crack a smile at least.  A smirk, he’d take. “ And I—I couldn’t get on the plane.”

“Have you ever had an issue flying before?”

He shook his head.  “My parents, they, um, you know the Huntzbergers--Huntzberger Publishing Group?”  Logan pointed two thumbs toward his chest, “They, well, they died in a plane crash last year. And I’m not, you know, trained in these kinds of things, but I’m guessing the two things might be related.”

When the plainclothes officers had come to his hotel room in San Francisco, he initially thought that it was some kind of joke that Colin and Finn had planned that involved framing him for murder, or some other class A felony. One officer was tall and gangly and the smaller one was comically short with a pronounced scar on his cheek, and Logan figured that they’d found some between-indie-film-character-actors willing to do a quick ruse for a pocketful of cash and one more line of experience on a too-lean acting resume.  It was all very somber as they stood there, and the smaller fellow couldn’t manage stay still for more than ten seconds at a time. He seemed on the verge of a swoon, and it played into the tableau incredibly realistically.  Logan had actually started a slow clap after the taller one intoned, very solemnly, “We’re very sorry, Mr. Huntzberger,” and the shorter, woozier one couldn’t stop staring past Logan to some vague spot on the wall, completely unable to look him in the eye.  “There’s been an accident and your parents, Mitchum and Shira,” so help him, the officer had to consult a tiny card like he was delivering flowers instead of death notices, “they were...um...they did not survive.”

That was when the shorter one regained his sea legs, finally pivoted his gaze toward Logan, who was standing with his hands positioned three inches apart, ready to go for another round of applause while still scanning the hallway for a trio of morons to jump out laughing hysterically and yelling, _Gotcha! Man, Huntz, you should have seen the look on your face..._ no one showed their face, though. “We are very sorry for your loss.”

Logan couldn’t remember much other than inviting them in and offering them a drink from an open bottle of Glenfiddich and this abrupt sense of being completely and utterly separated from the situation.  He didn’t remember, didn’t _know_ if the officers had chosen to stay or if they had even entertained accepting his offering of scotch.  Then there was a phone call and there was Rory and weeks upon weeks of overwhelming exhaustion that might have been mourning but he wasn’t sure for what. Or for whom.

Dr. Berry gave him a sympathetic look.  “I’m sorry to hear that, Logan.  I can imagine that it’s pretty rational that you’d develop a bit of anxiety after that.”

There were plenty of rational reactions that he probably could have had, but he couldn’t remember feeling particularly logical as he hyperventilated on the floor of an airport bathroom, his chest fit to burst with a pressure of unknown origin. “Yeah, it still really doesn’t feel like it makes sense.  I’d flown at least ten times since my parent’s plane crashed, and this was the only time I ever had any...reaction.”  Rory and the doctor were calling it a panic attack, but using those words felt like admitting defeat.  Felt like weakness, working its way through his body.

“Was there something different this time?”

Logan thought for a long moment. Everything was different this time. He was with the woman he loved, he was finally free of Huntzberger control, he had a beautiful baby girl that was sitting up and eating oatmeal like a champ and laughing hysterically when she spit it out all over her father’s face. “I guess it was the first time I was going to fly after my daughter was born.”  

The doctor repeated the phrase and Logan was suddenly pressed with an urge to just deposit every insecurity he’d ever possessed in one lump sum at her feet.  

“I mean, I get that those two things are related.  I do.” He stumbled over his words in an uncontested race to solve his own issue while stating the problem, he supposed. “It’s just that...the thing that doesn’t make sense is that I wasn’t even really that close with my family. At their funeral, everyone kept apologizing to me, over and over, “I’m so sorry,” and it happened about a hundred times before I finally asked my...Rory…What did these strangers do that they had to apologize for?  My brain couldn’t process, couldn’t see why everyone was so damn sorry, like they’d broken something of mine or misplaced something I’d loaned them.  I was a hundred different things that day but sorry was never one of them.”  _Relieved_ , he thought, he had been relieved.  Numb, but numb with the pins and needles sensation in his limbs like he’d just been released from underneath a greater weight, one he’d been trapped under for far too long.

“Children and their parents often have very complicated relationships. That may not be unique to your situation.  And grief can bring up a lot of feelings that we thought we had hidden away, making things a lot more jumbled.”

“Jumbled is one way to put it," Logan scoffed.  "Geraldo Rivera could broadcast live from the vault of my family’s repressed feelings and hidden secrets, Doc.”

“So let’s talk a little about that then, if it’s alright with you?”

It wasn’t alright, because once that door opened, it would be a hell of a lot more than just a roll of tape and an old receipt on a shelf.  But that was why he was here, and it was ridiculous to pretend that it wasn’t.  Plus, maybe there was a way to get out of there just by dipping a toe in and not going full deep dive.  “It’s just that maybe from appearances, other people never saw us how I saw us.  We had money and power and...manipulation.  I never attended a family dinner that didn't end in some kind of shanghai.  We didn't have relationships.  We had strings."

He hadn't said any of these things to anyone before, outside of Rory, and even then it was in fits and starts.  Logan knew that without confidentiality and HIPAA laws, what he said here today could have ended up in the Wall Street Journal tomorrow.  But because of those things, he was safe.  This was as safe as he could be, so information just started to pour out.

"People always thought that my dad and I were...tight.  But, the truth is, I didn't really know my dad.  I mean, I knew him, obviously, he lived in my house and I saw him at the dinner table and he made a lot of decisions about my life but I didn't really _know_ him.  He was always kind of more of a mysterious fatherly presence, but he wasn’t really present, if that makes sense.”

Dr. Berry didn’t portray much confusion as she asked, “Would you have wanted it to be different?  If you could wake up tomorrow with something about your relationship with your father being different, what would it be?”

It took several pounds of strength not to snort in derision at the idea that there was just _one_ thing that Logan would change.  “I might have to get back to you on that once I narrow down the list.”

“It’s okay, Logan.  This isn’t a test.  There isn’t a right or wrong answer.  Could you tell me more about the decisions was he making for you?”

Logan thought about it for a few minutes, and the therapist patiently waited.  If he ran through the list of decisions that he didn’t make for himself - where he went to school, who he associated with, what business he was in, who he married - he wasn’t sure where his father ended and he began.  It was just a long line of Mitchum’s forceful edicts and Logan’s spineless kowtowing, wasn’t it?  “Where I worked, what I did while I was there, who I married, what I should want from life, y’know, nothing big.”

“Those sound pretty big.”

“In the grand scheme of things, sure.  But I couldn’t...didn’t follow through the way he wanted.  Not always.”  Fully pursuing Rory after years of tenuous stops and starts and romantic nebulousness felt like Logan’s one victory in all his other defeats.

“Why do you think your father felt the need to make those choices for you?”

“I wasn’t good enough, I guess?” He started, staring at a particularly interesting section of beige carpet.  Light from the window crisscrossed with the shadow of blinds and made a pattern where he could count the squares and make his thoughts more well ordered.  “I was bred for a certain life, one that I never really cared about being a part of, really.  And I don’t think my dad, or either of my parents, thought that I managed to live up whatever expectations they had for me anyway.  If I was supposed to be smarter, or harder working, or if I was supposed to know what was expected of me without them ever really asking me what I wanted out of life.  Or maybe it was always just easier for me to act like I had no idea whose expectations were whose because I never met a fucking one of them.”  He looked up, surprised that all of that had finally found its way to the surface. If his chest was supposed to feel any lighter, it didn’t yet.  Maybe that part took more time. “Am I allowed to curse?  I don’t know what the protocol is here.”

His therapist smiled.  She exuded a quiet warm confidence that made him wish he’d called sooner, because maybe he could avoided the months of sleeplessness and anxiety that had kept him from really enjoying the now-frequent wide, gummy smiles of his daughter.   “It takes a lot to offend me, Logan.  You’re fine.”

“Well, I’ll have something to work toward then.”

“So tell me a little more about the rest of your family, if you could.”

“The one I came from or the one I made?”

The doctor gave him a quick look over her pad of paper.  “The one you came from, if that’s all right.”

Logan should have paused, should have measured his words, but he didn’t.  “I have a sister.  She's okay.  I mean, we talk.  Well, as much as we ever did.  I wouldn't say we're super close.  That wasn't really how my family worked.  Send everybody off in different directions and make sure that no one compares notes too closely was sort of how we operated, I guess.  If we’re looking at nature versus nurture, there wasn’t a whole lot of nurture going on.  My dad was a dick and then he died and I didn't--It almost didn't matter to me?"  His eyes were starting to sting but in a way, pushing past the words felt as if he was floating.  He was almost unstuck.

"Honestly, I think I was more sad that I wasn't that sad.  I’d watched my fiancé, how she was still mourning her grandfather and my own dad was...he cared more about what other people thought of me than he actually cared about me, and it felt like vindication or something, not grief.” He looked up, fully expecting to read horror on the expression of his seemingly unflappable therapist.  When he found Dr. Berry’s face, it was as placid as a spring lake. “And my mother, Doc, we don’t even have the time.”

“We’ll have plenty of time together, Logan, I assure you."

“That's good, I guess, since I think I have more to say about them than I originally thought.”

“That tends to happen pretty often in this room.  But if I had to pick one thread out of what you just told me, I hope that you might understand that there is not one particular way to grieve a loss.  Or in your case, multiple losses.  Logan, grief is fluid.  There isn’t a guide for what you are supposed to feel. I understand that people’s perceptions of us are often more important than our own, but it doesn’t make them the most accurate depiction of our true selves.”  She clearly sensed his discomfort at how close she may have come to the truth.  “And it is perfectly natural to have that ambivalence toward your parents, given what you’ve experienced.”

“Well, afterward, I crawled into a bottle and shacked up with my ex, who I’d accidentally knocked up but didn’t know it.  So I’m not sure exactly which stages of grief I’ve checked off the list so far.  Sex and alcoholism?”

Again, nothing seemed to land on the joke front. “Could you tell me a little about your girlfriend...your fiancé?  What’s that relationship like for you?” Dr. Berry asked.

“Rory, she’s writing a novel right now...she’s brilliant and funny and beautiful.  Challenges me but not--she takes care of me. When I met her, I was absolutely sure that I was not meant to have what we have, and it took her all of five minutes to change my mind.  I just knew that I had to be with her, for always.  She’s the love of my life.  She’s the love of my life and honestly, sometimes I'm not sure if I’m hers.  Or if I even should be.”

Sutton raised an eyebrow.  "She says this to you?"

"Never."  Logan picked at an invisible piece of lint on the armchair cushion. "We've had some complications over the years.  It's more of a reading between the lines kind of feeling."

“And your daughter?  What’s it like being a new dad?”

The first moment that the nurse had handed the newborn Bea to Logan, with her skin still scrubbed red and wrinkled from nine months of aquatic living, he knew that he would never be happier than in that moment.  It was the first time that he had ever felt pure, unadulterated joy or love without reservation and it was a far more powerful rush than any base jumping in Costa Rica or cliff diving in the Seychelles could ever provide.

He hadn’t ever thought much about becoming a father before he’d found out about the pregnancy because fatherhood seemed like a burden, an obligation to breed more heirs.  The problem with dynastic plans was that they were all about math: sequence, profits, order. 

And Logan had been a variable in the Huntzberger family equation for longer than he’d intended. His daughter would never have to feel that, he had sworn to himself and to her, even as she was still swaddled in a hospital issue blanket and wearing a tiny pink knit cap.  She wasn’t a variable, she was Lorelai Beatrix Gilmore, and she was never going to have to equate her worth to what she could produce or who she would marry. 

Logan wanted to tell Sutton that being a new dad was probably a lot like what it felt like to be at war.  That he had to be vigilant and brave in ways that he didn’t even know were possible, let alone attainable. That for each objective that he cleared, he always managed to feel just a little bit more behind, and inevitably, in the time it took to catch his breath, another enemy had time to advance.  He wanted to tell her that he’d never felt more inadequate than when faced with the prospect of being solely responsible for another human life, and all of his actions - even the most minute of them - had very real and very dire consequences.  Or maybe he’d tell her that almost every day when he woke up, there was a voice in his head that wondered if Rory had been right to try to leave him out.  

That might have been the moment when it started to feel like all the beige walls were closing in on him and he actually had to gulp to push down the lump that had formed in his throat.

“I don’t really know what it’s like, to be honest.  I’m kind of...It’s the weirdest thing, how much I love her.  She weighs fifteen pounds and is built like a fireplug and there are planets that could not contain the amount of love I have for her, and I...I resent it?”  He raised an eyebrow at his own admission, because hearing it out loud made it so much more tangible and terrible, selfish.  “I think I resent it because I know that it’s possible now, to love someone that excessively, and I can’t figure out why it wasn’t possible for my parents, and why I’m not,”  his eyes stung and his throat felt strained, and he’d have given anything not to be in that room in front of this kind-eyed stranger, but there he was, slowly breaking down.  “I can’t figure out why I wasn’t...why my parents couldn’t love me that same way, or why anyone else should.”

Dr. Berry scribbled something on her notepad then, which gave Logan the adrenaline-like rush of accomplishment he’d been waiting for the entire session, and he swallowed a few mouthfuls of cool water from the mug on the table in hopes of bringing himself back to center.  

Instead, the room started swimming in front of him and he have been lying if he said he wasn’t thinking of laying face down on the plush carpet and burrowing deep enough into the pile that he’d emerge in another dimension where he was another kind of person - one with strength or fortitude, maybe.  “It’s extremely overwhelming, I’d imagine.  Even people with the healthiest upbringings would have difficulty handling those life events and changes.  It isn’t uncommon for that ambivalence to a loved one’s passing to bring up a lot of guilt, and shame, and when it has no place to go, it just has to come...out.  No matter the time or place.”

Logan snuffled, gesturing to the liquid that was currently evacuating his tear ducts.  “Well, it’s clearly coming out, so I should be good, right?”

She smiled a little sadly, her eyes a devastating portion of gentle that Logan worried edged into pity and he didn’t want any part of it.  “Logan.  I wish I could tell you that you’re never going to have another attack like the one you had in the airport.  In fact, I’m sorry to say that you probably will have more, especially since what we’re going to be talking about here has the potential to be triggering.”

“Super.  Sounds like a gas.” Logan fiddled with the handle of his mug of water, clinking the edges of his fingernails against the side of the cup in an effort to redirect the nervous energy because he very much wanted to fling himself out the window to escape both the room and the conversation.  The conversation that he had voluntarily steered in this direction in the name of personal development.  _Idiot._

“The good news is, we are going to work on helping you figure out what those triggers are, plus some ways to cope with those times when it feels like the anxiety has grown large enough to incapacitate you, and better yet, to head some of it off before it gets to that point.  But your daughter, and your girlfriend, they sound like they love you very much, and they want you to feel better.  However that looks for you.”

He wasn’t sure what that even was, if it was a quiet night snuggled up watching the curve of Rory’s shoulder move as she breathed in and out or if it beginning to feel like he was no longer a ghost in his own temporary home. But he certainly didn’t want to say any of that to Sutton, because frankly, he’d already opened the door to emotional Narnia and wasn’t in the mood to see the lion and witch today as well.  “So you’re saying that I _don’t_ need a one way ticket to the looney bin?”

“No, Logan, you don’t.  I don’t even think you’d benefit from meds at this point.  I think what we’re looking at here is an issue adjusting.  You’ve had a lot of changes over the last year-- the death of your parents, the birth of your daughter, your new job responsibilities.  Most of us take three to six months to regulate those changes, and in your case, it’s taking a little longer and interfering with some of your day to day functioning.  That sleeplessness, the restlessness that you’ve described, your anxious symptoms, the depression you're experiencing, those are all likely brought on by what’s happened.  You just need to give your brain some time to catch up.”

He bit back the instinct to ask, “What if it never does?” Instead he allowed the therapist to lead him through a guided imagery meditation and teach him a few basic breathing techniques that he promised the rest of his ego that he would never ever employ if he had any choice in the matter.  Logan could only picture Mitchum, arms crossed in the corner of the too beige room while Logan counted breaths and imagined safe spaces.

_“All this kumbaya bullcrap.  C’mon, Logan, be a man, stuff it down inside you and just buck up, buttercup,” Mitchum would’ve said, his emotions always as walled off as any Egyptian tomb. “Just hit something.  Have a drink.  Buy a bigger yacht.”_

Maybe the last one would have been a not-so-subtle dig at his inability to both literally and figuratively stay afloat, but hell, that was Mitchum in a nutshell.  

And clearly, not too much further under the surface, there was a part of Logan that would say exactly the same.  


End file.
